CARNIVAL
by kittykittyhunter
Summary: It's been ten years since Echizen Ryoma was a freshman at Seishun Gakuen. Since then, the shining star has dimmed. Answering a request, he returns to his beloved school, determined to coach the struggling tennis team. Does Ryoma still have the strength to make a difference?
1. Serve

This story is for the lovely Viva.

Many thanks to Avise, who helped immensely.

* * *

**CARNIVAL**

~ kittykittyhunter ~

**…**

Chapter I

**Serve**

* * *

It was unseasonably hot. He'd opened all the windows in the hotel room and switched on the fan. It hummed as it oscillated, blowing artificial air onto every wall. Echizen Ryoma lay on a scratchy rug in the middle of the floor, a phone pressed to his ear. He did not like what he was hearing.

"Two years of humiliation." A little snort. "Considering the role models and stars they had in the past, it must be demoralising."

Ryoma's hazel eyes slanted. "You were one of those stars, old man. Why should I do it?"

"Because you're wasting your life."

He dragged himself up and ran his gaze across the furniture. The tall, thin cupboard was made of wood. There was a lamp in one corner. His belongings were sparse. A single tennis bag leant against the bed, stuffed with three racquets and a few creased shirts.

He rolled onto his feet and approached the window. Los Angeles was a beautiful city and at the moment, it was home. He had no desire to go.

But he thought of the heavy cherry blossom trees.

"Alright. Only for Ryuzaki-sensei."

**…**

Ridiculous. His legs were shaking.

The airport had changed a little since the Ryoma's last visit. That had been… what? Two years ago? He remembered being twenty years old and standing in this exact spot. On that day he'd noticed a coffee shop across the way and, on a whim, bought an overpriced macchiato. It was disgustingly bitter. What a waste.

Ryoma did not want to remember the unwelcome flavour – this was Tokyo and everyone who went by reminded him of that: he watched tourists wring each other's hands and gab relentlessly; men and women in pressed suits rushed past, checking their watches; entire families were sobbing or arguing. And, occasionally, he saw loved ones fling themselves into one another's arms. He turned away, a small grin tickling his face. He was going to find out if Seigaku was as busy as the airport.

**…**

A list of regulars was pinned to the corkboard. He leant closer, peering at the column… strange. The current Seigaku barely met the requirements for a team: only seven names were scribbled on the sheet, a mix of juniors and seniors. He drank the titles, searching for anything intriguing or familiar.

"Uesugi Chiharu…" Ryoma blinked. Why in the world was there a _girl_ on the team?

The study door creaked opened and he swivelled.

Horio Satoshi stood tall, almost at six foot; his shoulders were broad and his limbs were muscular. He still bore a light monobrow. His brown locks were short and there were long sideburns on either side of his face. A thin moustache sat below his nose. When he spoke, it was with such a deep voice that Ryoma nearly jumped.

"Welcome back, Echizen."

"Yo." Ryoma nodded. He had not changed all that much – taller, yes, at five foot ten. He'd shed some of the baby fat that once softened his face. But his irises were still surrounded by too much white and his green hair was a nest of flyaway strands.

Horio stepped forward, closing the study door behind him with a click.

"I didn't know what to think when Ryuzaki-sensei said that you were coming. We haven't seen you in ten years."

There was a faint note of admonishment to Horio's voice. Ryoma scratched the nape of his neck. "Ten years, huh? Well, it sounds like all that's happened since then is that Seigaku's gotten itself into bad shape. I'm here to be the coach."

Horio cleared his throat.

"I came here to do the same thing."

Ryoma blinked and Horio hastily lifted his palms.

"I started in April. All we've done so far is put the team together and scrape through the Districts. I've taken the step of reintroducing Seigaku's monthly ranking tournaments. There's so much to be done and –"

"Look," Ryoma cut in, "if you're the coach, there's really no need for me to be here. Good luck."

He advanced towards the door. Horio sidestepped and blocked Ryoma's path. The lunch bell tolled and within seconds, Seigaku erupted. Students would be taking to the corridors and the halls. The hubbub scratched on both their ears.

"You came all this way," swallowed Horio, his mouth twisting.

"That doesn't matter. You're the coach. They're your responsibility."

"You could be my assistant?"

Ryoma gave a disdainful scowl and Horio recoiled, clapping his palms together.

They stood in silence. Ryoma ran one sneakered toe along the study floor. The room was almost a perfect square. It was tastefully decorated; Venetian blinds hung at the window and a small vase of flowers adorned the solid desk. A yellow clock announced that lunch was ticking by.

He was the opposite of Horio: while the coach wore a brown suit and smart shoes, Ryoma had turned up in jeans combined with a plain shirt. He could never take on the role of a coach like this…

Horio ventured, "What happened to you, Echizen? We were so proud when you won the Junior US Open. It's like you fell off the face of this earth. Where have you been?"

Ryoma turned to the ceiling. It was covered in rectangular tiles.

"Don't get me wrong," he said. "I've been playing tennis. Just… not like them."

Horio wiped his hands on his blazer. He reached into one pocket and drew out a pale handkerchief. He dabbed at his face.

"Be the coach, Echizen. Maybe this is what you need."

Ryoma smiled and bowed, thanking the indulgence of his old friend.

"I want to focus on Seigaku. It's not a big deal that I'm here. Okay?"

**…**

Man. The reporter had boldly declared that there wasn't going to be any rain that day, so of course, it had been an afternoon of grey clouds and harsh winds. She liked it best when the sun was shining and the asphalt was hot. It spurred her into being faster, making sure that her toes made limited contact with the ground.

She lay sprawled across an armchair, twirling a finger around her long, brown ponytail and blowing a large bubble. She was flicking through a book of poetry, a phone nestled against her jawline. When the apple snapped, there was finally an answer.

"What is it?"

Miyuki's nose twitched.

"If you're going to take that tone, I won't tell you."

A pause. They were friends, sure – but not so close that she called to complain when her converses had a hole in them, or when she was charged too much at the post office.

She said, "Apparently… he's back."

Another pause – and a small chuckle. "Thanks for the great news."

**…**

He served and up went a wooden racquet, catching the ball with ease. It slid down the gut and pattered across the floor.

It was such a familiar scene that the breath snapped between Ryoma's ribs. There was the old man, nearing fifty, lying across the swept porch. Propped on one elbow, he was feigning sleep. He was dressed in dark robes – the temple which he'd been attending to as a favour for a friend had eventually become his responsibility. And so, while the wayward boy had entered a string of small tournaments and made enough money to lurk in New York and L.A., Nanjiroh and his wife had remained in Tokyo; him, a pseudo-monk; her, a successful attorney.

"Well, if it isn't my useless son."

"I can't believe you're still alive."

Nanjiroh straightened, rubbed his bristly jaw and gave an exaggerated yawn. When he opened his eyes, he sniffed. "Boy, you're still as ugly as ever. I remember when you were such a cute thing…" he sighed and slid his hands into the sleeves of his robes. "Wait. I'm imagining things. You were never cute."

"And you were never useful." Ryoma tossed a cylinder of fruit soda. Nanjiroh caught it and studied the beverage with a raised eyebrow. He cracked open the can and began to gulp its contents. Ryoma marched over, dropping himself beside his father.

"Turns out that Segikau's no different. There's a bigger Science department and it was painted recently. Apart from that, all the uniforms are the same. I almost crashed into my old History teacher. He didn't recognise me."

"Most people won't."

Did reality sting? Ryoma couldn't decide. He opened his own can; it hissed. The juice was some cheap brand – the first sip brought a mouthful of pineapple and sugar. At least it didn't have a lousy aftertaste. Ryoma read the name. _Jora_.

"That's fine," he said. He stared out at the garden, pretty in an ensemble of green. His mother had improved its aesthetics: tall, blue flowers swayed in the breeze. He missed the weight in his lap. He missed Karupin.

"You're not there yet, Ryoma. Let's rally."

Father and son played tennis long into the evening. Ryoma bit his lip, unwilling to marvel at Nanjiroh's dexterity and flexible wrists. He could not match that ridiculous speed or counter that unerring footwork.

Both used their right hands. Nanjiroh, because he was bored. Ryoma, because he did not wish to trigger that terrible pain.

**…**

It was a nice apartment – if a bit small. It'd been tempting to stay at the family home. Rinko had cooked his favourite foods and smiled affectionately. But Nanjiroh had seized his son by the collar and thrown him into the street, crying loudly, "You can live here when you've got something to brag about!"

Ryoma opened the white fridge and frowned. It was completely empty, without even a mouldy egg to suggest that any food had been stored there. The tour guide announced that it was a clean place – the counter was fine, the couch was comfortable. The bathroom didn't have a tub. At least the bed was okay.

"Oh, I'll brag alright," Ryoma muttered as he threw himself onto the mattress. "I'll take them to Nationals."

He promptly fell asleep. He had to be at the temple in the morning. Somehow, he'd been prodded in the centre of his chest and ended up with cleaning duty.

**…**

Cereal for breakfast. He cringed and chomped his way through honeyed loops before shrugging into shorts and a t-shirt. He made sure to lock the door carefully before making his way to the temple. There, a broom would be leaning against one wall.

When he arrived, it was to find a child standing with his feet pressed together and his head bowed. His black hair was cropped short; there was a scar on his right cheek and from what Ryoma could see of his arms, they were peppered with bruises and scrapes. A plaster was stuck across the bridge of his nose. He was whispering fervently.

Ryoma ventured closer, noiselessly.

"And, if it's not too much trouble, please let me be taller."

Ryoma sniggered. At once, the boy whirled; clear, brown eyes met hazel ones. He was maybe half a foot shorter. A reasonable height, Ryoma thought, depending on what he wanted to do in life.

"'Scuse me," said the kid severely, "I don't really like people appearing out of nowhere and eavesdropping."

Ryoma said, "Who said I was eavesdropping? I'm here to work."

"Dressed like _that_?"

"You're not too different."

He glanced down at his sleeveless shirt, sandals and shorts. For a moment, his cheeks became flushed – he hastily straightened and rubbed his nose with his palm. "That's different," he declared. "That's because I play tennis, see? Can't exactly go around playing tennis in robes."

"You'd be surprised…" Ryoma looked left and right. There was the broom, resting, as expected, against the wall. "Well, I hope your prayers are answered."

"I've never seen you here before. What are you here to do?"

Ryoma waved an arm, saying, "It's dusty."

"Uh… I'll help."

They swept the grounds together, brooms swaying at the same pace. Ryoma turned away, trying to hide a smile. No, this wasn't Synchro – but it had been a while since he'd worked with someone else.

"From the way you talk, seems like you come here a lot. What's your name?"

"They call me Uesugi."

Huh. Why did _that_ sound familiar?

**…**

Some report had said that it was important for adults to drink milk, so Ryoma slipped a few bottles into the cart. He forced himself to walk by aisle of cakes and pies – they were too expensive, way too expensive – continuing on until in before a range of instant noodles. His brother-in-law was a fan of these. Ryoma tipped multiple flavours into the cart and considered its contents.

He needed more fruit and veg, that was for sure. Too bad that those things took so much time and effort to prepare. And he still needed to buy rice. For a moment, he wondered how he'd coped for so many years. This wasn't difficult. It was…

He spied more cans of Jora, these ones on a discount.

**…**

He was tempted to stop by a sports' store and purchase a white baseball cap. With some difficulty, Ryoma had twisted away from the desire. Now he stood before the team in what he already had at home: dark warm-up pants and a white shirt. Horio stood by his side, dressed in another clean suit. He'd made appearing professional into a habit.

The team… they were interesting. Six regulars had gathered before Ryoma, a respectable mixture of tall and short, bulky and lithe. Alternate body types would open the court to numerous styles of play. Behind the regulars were rows and rows of other students. Ryoma spied few freshmen in the group; the current Seigaku was mostly made up of juniors. The whole lot were troubled, squinting at one another – and at him.

"So from now, this will be your coach," finished Horio. "I expect you all to work hard together."

One of the regulars raised a hand. His hair was sleek and dark brown. His brows were thick; he had shining, violet eyes and sharp cheekbones. This one was slender. He began,

"Not that I really care, but how come we're switching coaches? You only got here recently, Horio-sensei."

There was muttered agreement behind him. Horio's face coloured – Ryoma shot his teammate a quick glance and returned to the boy.

"Who're you?"

"Haijima Nobuo."

Right – one of the second years. "For the past two years, Seigaku haven't made it past the Prefectural Tournament," began Ryoma. "While you guys have been sitting here, twiddling your thumbs and wondering how to win, your rival schools have been claiming trophy after trophy. That's embarrassing.

"I'm here to squeeze the best out of you. And when you think you have nothing left to give, I'm going to wring you again and get even more.

"Understood?"

The regulars bobbed, acquiescing. Then, someone – a bald someone – muttered, "We've been losing forever, even though Tezuka-san's motivated us all."

It _hurt_.

This was not the occasion to flee from his captain's reputation. Ryoma stepped away from the figure in his mind: Tezuka Kunimitsu, the hero who had won Wimbledon twice and clinched a third Grand Slam at Melbourne, an undisputed tennis genius and the greatest rival of the other Japanese player who tormented the circuits, Yukimura Seiichi. Yukimura had claimed two victories at Roland Garros, both against Tezuka. They were tennis luminaries, though while Yukimura made annual visits to Rikkaidai, citing the school as one of his greatest inspirations, Tezuka stayed away, a star that was climbing higher and higher until part of another galaxy.

And there he was, Echizen Ryoma, tied to the ground, such an obscure nonentity that he went unrecognised by this generation, even though he was part of the team photo which sat in a glass cabinet in the school's main hallway.

A decade was a long time.

His left elbow pulsed.

"This isn't about Tezuka Kunimitsu. This is about _you_." He surveyed the regulars again and asked, "Who's missing?"

Nobuo snorted. "Little Chi-chan, of course. Something about a dentist's appointment."

For that first practice, Ryoma saw the team perform basic drills. He warned the captain about warming up correctly: Morisaki Taiji nodded, his cranium catching the light. He wore the regulars' jersey with pride; Ryoma examined the blue collar with its line of red, glad that the design hadn't changed.

Later, the captain and coach shook hands. "I'm anticipating working well with you," said Ryoma. "Let's do our best."

**…**

Vacuuming was a pain.

Why did he have to worry about cleaning the top of the cupboard? Nothing sat on top of the cupboard – no one was ever going to run their finger along it and say, "Echizen-kun, I can't believe that you live in this dump." It wasn't as though he had to prepare the apartment for visiting royalty.

Then again, he had been the Prince, once upon a time. If anyone was visiting royalty, it was him.

The vacuum's noise was mingling with a weird buzz. Ryoma switched off the machine – and he noticed that his phone was twisting on top of the table. He checked the number. It was probably an advert or something; he didn't recognise the digits. He answered anyway.

"Hey."

"Ryoma-sama! It's lovely to hear your voice!"

He blinked, suddenly remembering a girl with brown pigtails and a tear mole; wait – Osakada Tomoko was no longer a bubbly first year girl. From the delight in her voice, she'd grown into a bubbly young lady. He greeted her warmly, saying, "It's been a while."

"I'll say. Satoshi told me that you're Seigaku's new coach – congratulations!"

_Satoshi_? Ryoma smirked. Well, they were both enthusiastic, opinionated and loyal; he mentally wished them a happy future, wondering what to purchase as a wedding present. Racquets, maybe. Or something nice for the mantelpiece?

"What about you, Osakada? What are you doing these days?"

"Ah you'll never guess! I'm a junior reporter for Monthly Pro Tennis. It's a lot of fun."

"I guess that means you've been covering the unstoppable Rikkaidai."

Osakada paused. Her nails drummed against the phone. She went on, "Well, it's true that they got two Nationals in a row. We stopped their last three-peat. We can do it again."

Ryoma shook his head, forgetting that he couldn't be seen. "I'm not on the team. Hey… how much do you know about the current Seigaku?"

Apparently, a lot. They lacked an eighth regular because the last boy who had filled the spot had suddenly moved and Horio – _Satoshi_ – refused to close the void by picking any old kid to stand in. The team had a steadfast doubles pair in Kashiwagi Tomio and Kanda Hiromi, a couple of juniors. The first was a serve and volley player, the second, an all-rounder. Haijima liked to eat apples and Yokoto Daigoro's family owned a spa. Ryoma's stomach simmered at the thought of bath salts; he resolved to visit the place, at some point.

He scribbled the information onto post-it notes. He stuck the yellow squares onto his fridge, veins bustling with adrenaline.

**…**

He'd had an exhilarating run. Too bad that he was replacing the clean air in his lungs with Tokyo's fumes.

He stretched strong arms and stopped at a street vendor, buying a box of noodles. They tasted good, really good. Miyuki had been (shockingly) helpful: she'd pinpointed that guy's exact whereabouts and then gone on to arrange some careful manoeuvres. She was a good friend.

He chomped through the noodles absent-mindedly, peering at his surrounds. Right. Since he was here, he needed a job.

**…**

On his way to afternoon practice, Ryoma bumped into Uesugi.

He blinked and pointed. "You!"

Ryoma nodded. "Me."

Uesugi's face twisted. "There's no need to make fun of me." The plaster was still stuck across his nose. At least Seigaku's dark, long sleeves hid most of the cuts and scrapes – Uesugi seemed the type who regularly fell out of trees. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Working."

"What… you're a janitor?"

A reasonable conclusion, all things considered. Still, he didn't have the luxury of dawdling with Uesugi – another minute and he'd be late. Horio was going to be absent from this session; he was drowning in marking. Of all the things in the world, he'd qualified to become an _English_ teacher.

"I have to get going, so see you around."

Uesugi was still at Ryoma's heels. Following? No. They were going the same way. He halted and Uesugi came to a stop.

"Hey…" Ryoma frowned. "Do you have a sister?"

Uesugi flushed. "I'm an only child!"

"So. You're Chiharu?"

"That's right," said Chiharu hotly, "and I'm not a girl!" He spat to one side. "And don't you dare go calling me 'Chi-chan' – it's an unfortunate circumstance, is all! My dad promised my mom that they were gonna call their first kid Chiharu because that was my grandma's name. Turns out that the doctors read their stupid scans wrong and they didn't have a daughter, they had a son. My dad keeps his word, so if you pick a fight with my name, you're pickin' a fight with him!"

He was as bristly as a hedgehog. Ryoma said, "I didn't ask for your life story. I was just gonna tell you that I'm your coach."

Uesugi blanched.

"I'm sorry, sensei," he mumbled. "I, um – what about Horio-sensei?"

"Heh." Ryoma shrugged. "Let's say that I'm a stand in. Anyway, thanks to all of your babbling, we're _both_ late. You'd better run ten laps."

Uesugi raced on, leaving Ryoma to stride to the courts.

Good. The non-regulars were practising their swings. Ryoma wove in and out of the rows of pupils, correcting the occasional grip. One freshman had terrible posture, leaning too greatly to the right. Ryoma corrected his feet. Then, he focused on the regulars.

More basic drills. They continued with push-ups and sit-ups. Uesugi wasn't the smallest in the group – he was of equal height to a boy with pale skin and long, fair curls. Ochre irises. This one was slim, slightly porcelain. When Ryoma asked for his name, he sniffed and said that he was Kashiwagi Tomio.

Ryoma thought back to the yellow post-it notes. A doubles player.

Enoki Yuuichi was the tallest of the lot. He was tanned and thickly built, an advantage for the aggressive baseliner. His face was rather flat. His irises were slate grey. His hair was bleached a fine yellow and cut short.

A team with potential, thought Ryoma. A team that could knock Rikkaidai off their pedestal, eventually.

"Alright. Regulars, run twenty laps. After that, we'll call it a day."

**…**

At the end of his next English class, Morisaki Taiji hovered by the teacher's desk, fighting the urge to clear his throat. He had a serious face: hooked brows sat above dark, grey eyes. He rarely smiled. Horio regarded him, blinked and asked, "Can I help you, Morisaki?"

"I gave the coach my support the other day." Morisaki adjusted the strap of his bag – he was being insolent and he hated it. "Yet… I wondered why Sensei stepped down from the post. It's really not my business, although…"

Horio's mouth curled, apologetic. "You're the captain. It's natural to worry about these things." He rose and shuffled sheets of paper and a dictionary into his briefcase. "Echizen and I were best friends back when we were in middle school. He needs this."

**…**

The guy on the poster was familiar. Ryoma peered at the image, trying to work out where he'd seen that model before. Maybe he was being too wistful, expecting to recognise everyone just because he was back in Japan. The model's hair was very clean and a soft red and he was staring into the distance haughtily. His elbows stuck out at an exaggerated angle. As for the clothes he wore… well, Ryoma had no need for another jacket.

He stepped back from the shop window. He required socks, for goodness' sake. The last time he'd done the laundry, he'd lost the whole lot.

**…**

"What's with that footing?" Nanjiroh hopped onto his toes and returned Ryoma's volley from the baseline; the younger man cursed and the elder continued, "You're slipping and sliding all over the place!"

"I'm not _slipping_," Ryoma snapped. He dashed – his father had the infuriating ability of controlling every corner of the court. Next to Echizen Nanjiroh, there was no way that Ryoma could dare to call himself a prodigy. "It's the only way to get to you!"

"Try again!"

The ball crashed past Ryoma – he swivelled to reach it. Too late. It was Nanjiroh's point.

Again.

"Boy, you'll never beat me with your right hand."

"For now, it's all that I have."

Nanjiroh snorted. "I'm going home for dinner. And no, you can't join us."

Ryoma ignored the command and tagged along.

It was so soothing to sit around the low table with his parents. More lines had appeared in his mother's face and her dark hair was streaked with white. That didn't matter. She still had a way of smiling that made Ryoma feel relaxed. The pasta was delicious.

Afterwards, he sat outside on the porch, drinking a tall glass of fresh lemonade. Insects were singing from beneath blades of grass and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Rinko joined him, crossing her legs.

"How was work?"

"It's not a hassle. They've got a lot of potential, though they don't have that much faith in themselves. I'm going to have to dig deep to get it out of them…" he tipped his skull backwards, fixing his gaze on the stars, grains of salt on a tablecloth of sky. Above them, the moon was a clipped fingernail. Ryoma mused, "Maybe I'm too hard on them. This is the beginning, after all."

"Hmm. It sounds to me that you're putting them through what you would have done with yourself."

He ran a finger around the rim of the glass. Some people made a living out of drawing music from simple things.

"You've been lonely," said Rinko quietly. "We last saw you when your nephew was born. You know your father – he kidnaps Youji at any opportunity, no matter what Nanako says. You don't need to worry about impressing Nanjiroh. You don't even need to worry about _them_."

Ryoma leant his temple on his mother's shoulder. He felt small. "I can't think of what I'd do if I couldn't play tennis," he murmured. "I can't take that chance."

"All injuries heal."

**…**

"Urgh." Tomio sighed and rolled up the magazine. He whacked it across Kanda Hiromi's shoulder – the taller junior was working his way through his third sandwich. "I wish you'd stop eating and actually _talk_, Hiromi-kun. I've got a serious problem."

Hiromi put down the sandwich – then opened a bag of chips. Tomio sighed. With his glossy black tresses styled into tufts and dark, green eyes, Hiromi could easily land some kind of contract. Well. Possibly. But who would hire a thug? Tomio tilted his head to one side, wondering if it was true that Kanda Hiromi had won a brawl against a college guy while a mere pipsqueak with scuffed shoes and an elementary school satchel.

"Shiita-san's updated his style again," complained Tomio. "It's more summery. I should dye my hair. What do you think? Should I do it?"

Waving a hand, Hiromi returned to his sandwich.

**…**

The coach was standing in the middle of the courtyard, right hand upturned, face uplifted. For a moment, Chiharu wondered if he was meditating. A petal landed in Echizen's hand. Long fingers closed around the white blossom.

He was a taskmaster. It had been four days since the arrival of that guy, and as of yet, the team had done little beyond running laps and basic drills. Captain Morisaki told the group that the new coach was preoccupied with testing out their capabilities, observing the basics before analysing their real tennis. Yokoto had scoffed.

He had to pass the coach to get to the library. It would be rude not to say hello, even if the other was ensconced in a dream world.

"Hey, Echizen-sensei," called Chiharu tentatively. "You alright?"

Echizen looked down. His irises were glowing. "I was enjoying this scene. Seigaku's blossoms are the best in spring, especially in April."

"You say that as though you've been here before…"

Echizen blinked. "Oh, right. I used to be a student here, way back when." He unfurled his fingers – the breeze snatched back the unharmed blossom. "I love this school."

Chiharu nodded, finding it impossible to doubt the coach's words.

**…**

He received a call from Katsuo. His former teammate was doing well, working in an office not too far away. When Katsuo suggested that the group meet up and enjoy a meal together some time, Ryoma agreed but said that it would have to wait a little bit. He stared at the collection of post-it notes. The field of yellow was now sprinkled with green. Data was pretty hard to compile.

Upstairs, one of the neighbours was singing. The guy wasn't particularly good or even in tune and it was getting late. If he was in the mood for karaoke, he should have gone out with some friends. Ryoma stayed up for a while, scratching notes into a book, looking at various snapshots of the seven Seigaku regulars.

The singing did not stop.

_Why_? And was he the only one in the whole freaking building who could hear it? Maybe the others had done the smart thing and worn earmuffs and gone to sleep. It was grating on Ryoma's patience – he left his apartment and ascended the stairs, skipping every other step. What should have been a polite rap turned into Ryoma pounding his fist on the wood.

The door swung open.

A tall man with exuberant eyes and a wild, red mane. Ryoma stepped back, mouth unhinging. Tooyama Kintarou felt no such horror – he seized Ryoma's hands, pumped them up and down and grinning widely said, "Hey, Koshimae."


	2. Volley

Thank you to everyone who's supporting this story. The end of this chapter marks the halfway point, so onwards!

* * *

Chapter II

**Volley**

* * *

Ryoma stared. Tooyama Kintarou didn't appear all that different to his freshman self; his wild hair was tied back in a ponytail and he was taller, more muscular. Ryoma wriggled from the other's grasp. Super Rookie? No, that title didn't fit – neither of them could be called 'rookies' where tennis was concerned. "What are you doing here?" He scowled. As an afterthought, he added, "Your singing's horrible."

"Geez, you're _mean_, Koshimae! I moved into a new place – and that's all you can say?"

"I hope your house is haunted."

Tooyama's cheeks became blue. Shuddering, he checked over his shoulder. The room behind him was barely furnished; no blinds shielded the window and weights were sitting in the middle of the floor.

"I don't care if you live here or whatever. Keep it down. No one needs to hear your singing in the middle of the night, got it?"

Tooyama poked Ryoma, probably leaving a dent. "Whatever you say, Koshimae."

"And learn to read!"

Ryoma stalked away and leapt down the stairs. He stormed into his apartment. Later, he fell asleep with difficulty, dreaming about mountain storms.

**…**

Mizuno Katsuo was the tallest of the three. He had attentive eyes. His black hair was cut into short, sharp spikes. Then came Horio, relaxing – for a change – in loose clothes. Katou Kachiroh had grown round. Rectangular glasses sat on a plump face.

"It's been a while," said Kachiroh as he drew back a chair. "It's too bad that Ryoma-kun couldn't join us. Still, family take priority."

"How's he doing?"

"Pretty good," said Horio. This was a pleasant restaurant. The lighting was never too bright and sophisticated art hung on pastel walls. Watercolours, painted by a delicate hand. "You know what Echizen's like. The team aren't used to him yet –"

"We _don't_ know what he's like," cut in Katsuo. He grabbed the menu and opened it out. Even though this was the trio's favourite place to eat, Katsuo always perused the list of choices before proceeding to order the same starter and the same dessert. "Ten years changes everyone.

"I'm sure that he'll succeed at the Prefects."

**…**

Ryoma unlocked the front door to find Tooyama standing behind it. Ryoma shrieked, Tooyama roared – and then Ryoma pointed an accusing finger, snapping, "What is it?"

Tooyama scowled and massaged his neck. Bones clicked.

"I was going to ask if you had detergent, Koshimae."

Ryoma took a step forward while holding onto the door. He indicated the hallway outside. His neighbour had been rooting through the cabinets – every drawer had been pulled out. What the hell?

"Get your own. I need to go see my folks, so move it."

**…**

Tooyama… he was one opponent whom Ryoma could not bear to lose to.

Wasn't that the case with _all_ of his opponents? He pressed the switch at the crossing and waited for the lights to change. Cars rushed by. He was being flanked by a group of teenagers, some chewing gum, others standing silently. One held a glossy magazine. That familiar model was on the front cover, holding a colourful umbrella.

Tooyama was different. He and Ryoma had belonged to the same cohort, though while Ryoma had jetted off to the States following the Nationals, intent on starting his professional career, Tooyama stayed put at Shitenhouji. Maybe that crazy guy had even become the captain… Ryoma shook his head and walked across the white lines. It took more than strength to be a commendable leader. It took – charisma.

He imagined a stern, bespectacled man. He shivered.

He firmly drove away all thought of Tooyama, continuing on and on until at the front door of the Echizen family home. The garden was bright with local plants. He fixed his collar. All he'd brought was a box of chocolates; he hoped that it was enough, that his cousin wouldn't mind –

Nanako opened the door, her son precariously balanced on her hip. Her dark hair was twisted up into a bun and her lashes were long. "Welcome home, Ryoma-san. Come inside."

Smiling, he stepped over the threshold. His brother-in-law was in the living room. When Ryoma dropped beside him, Yamato Yuudai ruffled his hair.

**…**

It was an entertaining evening. Rinko's cooking was perfection. Afterwards, Nanjiroh nudged little Youji, who pinched the old man in return. A chubby toddler, Youji had a runny nose and a hatred of broccoli. Nanjiroh rolled over and pretended to have fainted; then he sat up and grumbled, "When will Youji get a cousin, eh?"

Ryoma reached out, holding a thin bowl.

"More rice?"

"Please."

He ate plentifully. Edible food wasn't cheap. Maybe while he was here, he could have a bath. Showers weren't nearly so relaxing. He missed sinking under the surface and listening to thrumming pipes.

When Youji was snoring, temple balanced on Ryoma's collarbone, the brothers discussed tennis.

"Seigaku's coach?" Yamato was amused. Years ago he had dyed his hair from green to auburn. It was cropped short and emphasised the scratch above his left cheekbone. "I should have considered applying for the post."

He glanced at his arm and went on, "Though… you're not allowing it to hold you back."

"Tennis is tennis, no matter where I play. That's all that matters."

Youji gave a minute snuffle and Ryoma patted his back. He was so _warm_. In some ways, babies were almost equal to cats.

Yamato sat back, stretching his legs out before him. He crossed his ankles. "That's an admirable attitude. You're committed to improving. If you were on the circuits, you could find an adversary who would push you to your absolute best."

"A rival?" Ryoma stared at Nanjiroh. The festivities had taken their toll on the old man; he was lying down in his shabby robes (he never donned neat garments for any event), complaining in his sleep. "I already have someone I can't defeat. Why go further afield when that guy is right here?"

"Then why were you away from home for so long?"

He couldn't answer that. Ryoma rose and strode out to the porch, arms carefully wrapped around the snoozing child. That night, the clouds were too thick for any stars to be visible. He heard airplanes roar above him, going elsewhere, anywhere.

**…**

"Yokoto, if you're so determined to stay in the same spot, work on your groundstrokes. Haijima, put that damn apple away and get your ass on the court."

The coach was in a bad mood. At least, that was how it seemed. The regulars were finally rallying – after five straight days of drills and laps, it was understandable that the team were restless. Still, in the changing rooms, Morisaki had said that this was building up their stamina. When Chiharu saw the wheezing Tomio, the sweating Enoki Yuuichi and the yawning Kanda Hiromi, he wasn't convinced.

They hadn't spoken since that time in the courtyard. What did the coach _do_? Chiharu flung the ball into the air, drawing his knees together and leaping up – his left hand swung the racquet down and there went the sphere, careering towards Kanda; it was a weighted shot but Kanda attacked it with ease, stepping into a fluid forehand. The plays were exchanged quickly, a steady tattoo of beats as the ball tapped each racquet's gut.

Echizen snapped his fingers at the pair. "Uesugi. Kanda. Stop."

Kanda caught the ball in one palm. The juniors looked over at the coach.

"Your minds are on everything except tennis. Focus. A lapse attitude will bump us right out of the Prefects."

Chiharu twisted away. Could that guy even _play_ tennis? He talked an awful lot for someone who never picked up a racquet. Chiharu waved at his opponent. Kanda took the cue and served.

It whistled by.

"Uesugi…"

Before Chiharu could speak, Haijima Nobuo broke in, shaking back his locks. "Don't be too hard on Chi-chan. He does his best."

"_OI_!"

"Yeah," agreed Echizen, "unlike you."

He scowled at Nobuo and it was so severe that Chiharu wanted to slink away. Nobuo shrugged, producing another apple from his jersey pocket. He rubbed the skin on his sleeve and took an ostentatious bite.

Echizen scoffed and clapped. The regulars gathered in a semi-circle. He began, "Here's the line-up. Since it's the first round, we'll be playing all five matches. If you win, we'll eat at Kawamura Sushi.

"Doubles Two is Enoki and Haijima. Doubles One – Kashiwagi and Kanda. The captain will play Singles Three, Yokoto will take Singles Two and Uesugi will finish things off."

"Chi-chan?" Yokoto's irises glittered. "I'm not sure that he can manage that. I'd be a better –"

"You're not the coach. Dismissed."

The team dispersed, murmuring. Only Doubles One were satisfied. Enoki and Haijima were eyeing one another with disgust. Morisaki's hands were clenched. And Chiharu privately agreed with his senior – Singles One was traditionally reserved for the team's most outstanding player. He wasn't worthy.

**…**

Tooyama was sitting on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table, eyes glued to a documentary. There was a bowl of popcorn in his lap and he was steadily munching his way through the snack.

"Um… I'm home?" Ryoma set down the tennis bag. He examined the front door. Nope – the lock wasn't broken. "Tooyama? How the hell do you keep getting in here?"

"Hey, welcome back. And Koshimae? Don't leave your spare key in such an obvious place. If you want, I'll take care of it."

"And what would I do if you were away and I'd left my key in the apartment, or lost it?"

Tooyama grabbed a fistful of popcorn and shoved it into his mouth. It was difficult to decipher what came next. Ryoma assumed that it was something along the lines of, "That'd be dumb."

He opened the fridge to grab a can of Jora. He tossed one to Tooyama, who caught it without removing his gaze from the screen. There were rubber bands around his wrist; they slid down his arm. Tooyama had rolled up his jacket sleeves – he wore a dark shirt and dark pants. No sign of animal print.

When Ryoma closed the fridge door, he noticed a white sheet tacked on top of all of the post-it notes. The untidy scrawl had to belong to Tooyama –

"Hey. What's with this shopping list?"

The TV boomed that tigers could eat up to forty kilograms of meat a night. Tooyama crooned, "Uwaa, that's cool!" He shovelled a few more pieces of popcorn into his mouth. "Your house is practically empty, Koshimae. Those are essentials."

He supposed that Tooyama had a point. Ryoma sat beside his neighbour and tried to focus on the big cats leaping about on screen. They were such powerful creatures, commanding as they prowled through grass, impressive in their coats of orange and black… before long, his eyelids drooped, eventually sliding shut.

He dreamt that he was first year student, filling the gaping hole in Seigaku.

**…**

She was _gorgeous_.

He knelt on the ground and made low, cooing noises. The cat tilted her head. Ryoma crooked his index finger, motioning her closer. She purred, skipped down from the brick wall and rubbed against his side.

Himalayan mountain cats were the best. He picked up the feline and held her close, wishing that they were not in the middle of a street but at home, sitting on the porch, drinking Ponta while procrastinating with homework.

"Ryoma-kun?"

Ryoma twisted, and in that moment, the cat darted from his arms. He called after her. Too late. She had jumped back onto the wall – her paws were there for an instant – and she was gone. He frowned at the newcomer.

Yukimura? No, this young man had a softer face than Yukimura Seiichi and while the pro's irises were blue, this guy's were a deep brown. His face was gentle. Almost… too gentle.

He held out a hand. "Do you remember? I'm Dan Taichi."

Ryoma shook the extended fingers. Damn, the name seemed _so_ familiar. They were about the same age. He wore casual clothes and a whistle was tied around his neck. Dan hadn't belonged to Seigaku. He must have attended a rival school.

"I was searching for that cat," Dan went on. "I work with rescuing animals. Ryoma-kun – I heard that you're Seigaku's coach?"

"That's right."

"Congratulations." Dan beamed. "Maybe we'll get to face off. I'm coaching too, at Yamabuki."

Ah – them. He remembered two members of that team. One guy was incredibly lucky. The other was amazingly flexible.

**…**

Huh. There was nowhere to sit down.

It took Ryoma a few moments to remember the tournament's format. Seigaku would be playing five sets against Minowadai, a set of regulars dressed in dark blue jerseys bordered with gold. Very regal. Would their play styles be similar?

The doubles matches would take place simultaneously on two hard courts, fenced off from observers by wire netting. Minowadai had a small following of supporters, other members of the club. Enoki and Haijima made their way to the left court, Kashiwagi and Kanda stepped onto the right.

The matches began.

Ryoma stood with hands in his pockets, scrutinising the eight racquets. The juniors had a natural rhythm: Kanda guarded the baseline while Kashiwagi Tomio stayed at the net, curls bouncing with every passing shot. Their timing was excellent and though Kashiwagi didn't twist to check where his partner was standing, he had a reliable grasp of Kanda's whereabouts. They took the first three games with relative ease and Seigaku applauded their efforts.

Enoki and Haijima were another matter.

The second year was lethargic. Haijima's shots had a lacklustre quality, spinning feebly. When the ball landed two feet from him, he was reluctant to chase it, allowing Minowadai to clinch several points. Seigaku lost four straight games.

The senior crossed strong arms across a broad chest. Ryoma stepped forward, realising what would come next – in his mind he saw Enoki seizing Haijima's collar and hoisting him into the air. Not that the junior didn't deserve it; the enemy were sneering, elbowing one another and pointing at the team's coach.

"Nice display of power," Enoki said. "Go sit down and leave the rest to your senior."

Haijima laughed. "You think you can change this, right now?"

"It's my serve."

Enoki twisted his elbow and launched the ball.

It rocketed past the opposing doubles' players. The smaller boy yelped and dove forward; it didn't matter – the umpire proclaimed, "Fifteen-love!" Seigaku stomped their feet. Ryoma turned back to the second court.

Minowadai were making a counterattack in Doubles One. One of their players had dashed, facing Kashiwagi at the net and drawing him into a challenge of supple wrists. They were at 4-2, about to change court. Ryoma beckoned Kanda over. The boy wiped back messy bangs and trotted to the coach. Kashiwagi, meanwhile, removed his left sneaker and complained that there was a pebble in his shoe.

"You might prefer to let him have the limelight, but you can finish this now. Go for it."

Kanda chewed his lower lip and inclined his head.

The next two games were over in seven minutes. Kashiwagi flailed his arms, screeching, "Lemme have a point!" Kanda raced about the court, volleys landing on the white lines, smashes crashing past the opponent. The umpire announced their victory. Seigaku whooped with joy.

Uesugi folded his arms. "Pfft. That Tomio's such a freakin' _cry-baby_ – if anyone's a weakling round here, it's him, for sure."

"Chi-chan, you're just jealous of his perfect hair."

"Shut up!"

Ryoma poked the junior's skull – Uesugi swivelled, opening his mouth to holler. He swallowed the unspoken words with a gulp.

"Stay focused. You're match is coming up."

"R-right."

And then, on the first court there came the news –

"Game: Minowadai's Gakusha-Nawane pair!"

The doubles' players shook hands at the net. Ryoma caught the glint in Enoki Yuuichi's eyes – and the nonchalance in Haijima's.

**…**

They were joined by another two spectators halfway through Morisaki's game.

"Ryoma-sama!" Osakada Tomoyo beamed. Ryoma smiled back at his old friend – she was much taller now. Her brown hair was tied in a high ponytail. Loose strands fell on either side of her face. There was a blue pencil tucked behind Osakada's ear. "Sorry we're late. This genius ran out of gas!"

"Heh. It's not common for Horio to run out of hot air."

Horio yelped, "She means the _car_, Echizen!" He scratched his chin and inspected the scoreboard – "Wait, we've already lost a match? This is bad!"

Osakada swatted the air. "Relax. Taiji's got this under control."

Morisaki Taiji was slightly taller than other serve and volley players whom Ryoma had studied in the past. He was a well-built teen with a fair sprint. His backhands were measured, but those lobs… Ryoma grimaced, thinking that Seigaku's captain could do with a few lessons in accuracy. Morisaki lost three consecutive points, racquet rising higher and higher with each unsuccessful lob. He wiped a sweaty brow and the two players swapped sides.

Osakada scribbled in her notebook. "That's the problem with Taiji. Once he believes that he can't make a shot, he backs himself into a corner and keeps repeating the same mistake."

A low voice drawled, "That's because tennis is a mental game." The three adults twisted – Yokoto Daigoro wore a small sneer. He was the same height as Ryoma, with deep blue eyes and dark blue hair. The tufts stuck out at odd angles. Yokoto went on, "That guy don't understand the first thing 'bout the mind-set that's needed on court."

Horio probed, "And you do?"

"Hah. Of _course_ I do. Pops played baseball, Ma played soccer, my big bro played basketball and my sis lived for volleyball. They _all_ led their teams to the Nationals back in middle school. If there's anyone on this team who understands sports, it's me.

"And that's why I can tell you that our cap'n is gonna lose."

"There's such a thing as supporting your comrades."

"Can't baby 'em."

Ten minutes later, the umpire announced Minowadai's victory. Morisaki walked away from Seigaku, babbling that he was thirsty. The crowd parted, letting him through. Kashiwagi pointed out a row of vending machines.

Shame swooped through Ryoma's stomach – he glanced at Yokoto. The third year snorted and leapt to his feet. Everything was resting on him.

**…**

Chiharu swore under his breath. Yokoto quickly finished his opponent, losing only the initial game. Minowadai exchanged worried mutters.

The opponent was an immense senior with silky white hair and a bulky build. Chiharu rubbed his nose. Alright. He'd always wanted to take down a fellow aggressive baseliner – and it was so satisfying to beat guys as big as skyscrapers.

"Before you go," Chiharu leant towards the coach, snatching at the words – something about this man made Chiharu want to believe in his tennis, even though he'd never witnessed it. Echizen said, "Stick to shallow shots. There are knots all over this guy. A little strain and he'll buckle."

Chiharu nodded. He marched forward, red racquet in hand.

"Go for it, Chi-chan!"

"Make us proud!"

He twitched. No, he couldn't let those idiots have their way, even if it was damn annoying! Chiharu gripped his racquet with both hands, preparing to receive serve. It was going to be a killer –

The ball was slow and bounced high.

Chiharu chewed his inner cheek. A shallow shot, right? That was an easy thing to order, but a harder thing to deliver – he swiped at the air and almost missed the first bounce. Miraculously, the ball walloped the racquet's rim and went towards the senior. The receiver grunted and whacked the ball and so, a rally began.

They swapped points as though they were collectible stickers. 15-0. 15-15. 30-15. Soon, they claimed a game each. Chiharu peeked back at the coach.

Echizen Ryoma mouthed, "Sushi."

Chiharu's chin bobbed. He rested his racquet by his feet, shrugging out of his jersey. Then he chucked the bundle at Tomio, who caught it in the face. Chiharu didn't care. He enjoyed sushi. He enjoyed it a lot.

It was hard, trying to meet the coach's game plan. Chiharu didn't have the fastest dash and the other baseliner sent sinking shots. The junior drove forward, and soon, the Minowadai representative was wincing.

He hadn't warmed up.

The match ended, 6-4. Seigaku exploded. Chiharu's back was thoroughly slapped, especially by Kashiwagi Tomio.

**…**

There was no Kawamura Takashi behind the counter at Kawamura Sushi, much to Ryoma's displeasure. "He's training," said the senior Kawamura. "Please, make yourselves comfortable." That was the extent of their conversation. Evidently, the chef did not recall this customer.

Ryoma and the regulars flopped onto the cushions that surrounded the low tables – Osakada had been unable to join them, citing a work problem and Horio needed to see a plumber – "There's something wrong with my kitchen sink." The restaurant was drenched in mouth-watering aromas; all around them, other diners were making themselves comfortable. Ryoma craved the hot spices and cool sauces. The perfect rice.

"I've never been to this place before." Kashiwagi scanned the décor, practically stepping on Kanda to peer above the other's skull. There was no music playing in the background – chopsticks, trays and conversations provided enough ambiance. "You seem to think highly of it, Coach."

Ryoma sighed. "Yeah. My seniors and I used to come here a lot."

"Come to think of it… where are you from, Coach?" Kashiwagi settled back on his cushion and rested his elbows on the table. "We don't know much about you."

"He was a student at Seigaku!" Uesugi snorted. "You guys aren't aware of jack, huh?"

Haijima smirked. "Suppose we should've counted on Chi-chan being a gigantic gossip. Tomio has a point. What are your qualifications for being a tennis coach, anyway?"

"You dare say that after you _lost_ a match?"

"It's fine," Ryoma cut in, tugging Uesugi back onto his cushion. The freshman fell with a small squawk. "Actually, it's a fair question. Since you asked – I mostly live abroad, in America. I came back to be your coach because the stories of Seigaku's constant failures were so embarrassing."

Sombrely, Morisaki said, "We weren't regulars back then."

"Exactly," Ryoma agreed, "and you weren't captain. You are now. That's why you have to do your absolute best. So that you won't regret it.

"You want feedback? Morisaki, work on those lobs. Your accuracy is going to let you down. Starting from next week, you'll be in a doubles pair with Yokoto – he can balance your precision and you can fix his lousy attitude."

Yokoto slapped his palms on the table. "S'cuse me?"

Ryoma waved a hand, swiping at the interruption as though it were an errant fly. He was the boss here, not a petulant brat who lorded the success of his athletic family over others. "Kashiwagi, your concentration is hideous and you lean too much on your left side. Kanda – increase your muscle-training."

"And _talk_," added Uesugi.

"As for you…" Ryoma glanced at Uesugi. "Your temper's too short, your jumps are too low and you double-faulted on four occasions. That's enough to throw away an entire game.

"Haijima: more energy on court. If you're not going to be dedicated, you can always be replaced. Enoki, be more assertive. There's no point in mindlessly throwing away games. If you can make a difference, make it from the beginning. Otherwise, you might not get another chance."

Ryoma paused.

As one, the team chorused, "Yes Coach."

The food was delicious. What had been a solemn silence quickly turned into a quiet brawl – Ryoma yelped when he noticed that Kanda had eaten the last dumpling. Kanda, at least, had the decency to look apologetic.

**…**

"Thanks for your purchase!" Tooyama Kintarou grinned as the final customer left the sports store, a new tennis bag slung over his shoulder. The man was approaching his mid-thirties and wanted to keep fit – originally he'd been interested in golf clubs. Tooyama's extensive racquet knowledge had won him over. It was time to lock up. Tooyama whistled as he worked, slipping stray baseball caps back onto shelves (he chuckled at a white one) and rearranging soccer boots.

"They overcomplicate it," he told the empty store. "I have the same racquet from when I started playing."

He turned with his arms wide, remembering three National finals – the Forest of Arenas, the Champions Plaza, the Star Carriageway; those had been three beautiful finals between worthy warriors; he recalled the roaring crowds, the confetti, the faces aglow with triumph, the _trophies_ –

And suddenly he wanted concrete and grass and clay.

Tooyama Kintarou inhaled, drawing breath into his lungs. "You still have a ways to go," he whispered, "we both do."

**…**

Hibino Daigo were no match for Seigaku, who won in three straight sets. Afterwards, he marched to the temple, tempted to burst into song, fighting the urge because the last thing he needed was to be told off for singing out of tune.

He thought of Tooyama and frowned.

That guy… was really a pain. Just that morning he'd let himself into the apartment, kicked Ryoma awake and declared, "Hey Koshimae, I brought pancakes and maple syrup." The only saving grace was the fact that the pancakes were tasty – "Koshimae, a _kid_ could make these." Well, Ryoma wasn't a kid, so why the hell did Tooyama think it was necessary to babysit him?

And it wasn't as though Tooyama showered Ryoma with kindness during just the weekend. Oh no, the other day Ryoma had walked in to find that Tooyama was filling a bowl with fruit – "It's important to have a balanced diet!" And the day before _that_, Tooyama had been asleep in the front room.

"Why are you here?"

"I was watching TV and I dozed off."

"Why can't you watch TV in your own apartment?"

"I don't have one."

"Idiot."

What had possessed Tooyama to come to Tokyo, anyway? Whenever Ryoma raised the topic, the other shrugged and said, "I was getting bored of Naniwa." _That _was a little hard to believe. Of all of Seigaku's opponents, Shitenhouji had possibly been the weirdest and the most annoying.

Well. Hyoutei had been pretty bad, too. In that case, the main problem had come from the Monkey King. And that guy was abroad, too far away to cause a problem.

He'd meant to go to the temple, but Ryoma found himself standing in front of the house. Huh. He searched his pockets – he unearthed a key and a white sheet of paper.

Tooyama's essentials.

"Crap."

Ryoma tapped his foot. There were so many things on this list… hadn't Tooyama gotten carried away? And then there was the fact that Ryoma needed to stock up on groceries. He was slowly getting used to the taste of Jora – with the exception of the lychee flavour. That one was disgusting.

He could… grab a _few_ things from home.

He let himself inside and foraged through the house.

Light bulbs. Toothpaste. A spare blanket (spring nights could grow quite cold), a pair of slippers and a dustpan and brush. Hunting through the kitchen, he found the rice cooker. The other evening, Tooyama had complained that Ryoma's grains were too sticky. Dumbass.

Ryoma carried the treasures home. This time, he sang.

**…**

"Koshimae… what the hell?"

"My rice is too sticky," echoed Ryoma, plugging the rice cooker into the wall socket, "so I decided to deal with it. You should be happy, right? That means you won't nag me when you come over for dinner."

"You brought me down here to gloat? That's what they call a kid who never grew up, right?"

Ryoma said, "I'm not Peter Pan. If you want to be helpful, grill the meat."

"I'm supposed to be the _guest_."

Tooyama set to work. He was fast at cutting through the beef and when it came to the grilling – "Are you forgetting, Koshimae? My captain was Shiraishi." Soon, the apartment filled with the scent of cooked rice and crispy beef. They sat down at the counter, each loading his plate with food.

"I gladly receive," Tooyama breathed. He began to shovel rice into his mouth, chopsticks moving rapidly. Ryoma watched the motion for a moment – and he was ploughing through his own food.

One bowl. A second bowl. A third. Ryoma was glad to have prepared so much rice – and best of all, he'd borrowed it all from his generous neighbour.

He wasn't the _only_ one who left his spare key in a stupid place.

"I'm gonna beat you, Koshimae!"

"Not on your life!"

There was one piece of meat left – one chunk that would determine who was the victor! Ryoma and Tooyama stabbed it at once – they both pulled – the chunk sliced into two perfect parts. They flew through the air. One half landed on Ryoma's plate, the other on Tooyama's.

"Like that tennis ball," Ryoma mumbled.

"Yup. Do you still play?"

Ryoma scowled. "What kind of question is that? Of course, every day! What about _you_?"

"Of course. Every day."

Tooyama was another opponent that he could never defeat with only his right hand. That fearsome child had been able to match the State of Self-Actualisation with raw power alone… how much stronger had he grown?

It was as though flames were traversing Ryoma's spine. After all, they both loved tennis.

**…**

When Chiharu next went to the temple, he discovered a very strange man.

He was tall and dressed in a business suit. He had wavy, blue hair which almost reached his shoulders. He was staring at the roof, speaking to himself very quietly. When Chiharu drew closer, he caught the stranger's words:

"He's no good, no good at all."

Chiharu asked, "Are you alright?"

The man started from his reverie and blinked at the boy. "Ah, yeah." He shrugged. "I was thinking of an old friend. Huh. Maybe I shouldn't call him that. The idiot never picks up his phone or replies to messages. Anyway. It's going to rain."


	3. Lob

I can't believe that this fic's so close to being completed! When I started uploading it a few weeks ago, I felt impatient and wanted to put up the whole thing at once. But, with chunky chapters, the breaks are probably better.

Thank you again to everyone who's been reading this story. I apologise for how slow I am when it comes to replying. Still, every comment and alert is deeply appreciated.

* * *

Chapter III

**Lob**

* * *

He saw her again. She was on a branch, cleaning her paws. Her fur shone against rich leaves – he held out his arms. She studied him, thinking. Then she hoisted her nose and tail into the air, bounding away.

He'd been rejected.

**…**

"Koshimae, you're out of milk."

"That's because you keep drinking all of it."

Ryoma emerged from his room, towelling his hair. Tooyama was squatting in front of the fridge, scouring its insides as though a carton of milk would magically appear behind the lettuce or the butter. He asked, "Just how much milk do you drink, anyway? I was gonna have cereal."

"You're hopeless." Ryoma threw himself onto the couch. He could afford to relax for a few minutes: morning practice would commence soon. "You complained that I couldn't fend for myself and now you're raiding my house. Go away."

"Heh. It'd be a lot cheaper if we just lived with your parents."

"_We_?"

"Uh-huh. Your house is pretty big, right? I've passed it on my jogs." Tooyama stood up and stepped aside, letting the fridge door close. It was stuck with post-it notes. Blue squares sat on top of the yellow and green. "Aaah – Kanda needs better grip tape? He could come to the store I work at."

"_We_?"

Tooyama checked his watch. "Gotta go, Koshimae! See you later!"

He grabbed a handful of the clementines that were lying in the fruit bowl and strolled from the apartment, throwing the citrusy spheres into the air and catching them in his mouth before proceeding to gobble them whole.

"There's no 'we' about it," Ryoma said darkly. "Living alone is supposed to be a sign of independence."

His eyes fell on the rice cooker. He cringed.

**…**

"We had it easy this weekend. Crazily easy. The Prefects get tougher from here." Tomio rubbed his hands together, jumping on the spot. "The Best Eight! Hyoutei Gakuen made it there and those guys are _rolling_ in money. They'll have the fanciest equipment!"

"Forget Hyoutei." Enoki slid the Seigaku shirt over his head. He snapped bands onto his wrists. "We need to concentrate on our next opponents. Houjou are notorious for their data players."

Chiharu scoffed. "It ain't the data that matters – it's what you do with it."

"Naturally, Chi-chan strikes with wise words." Nobuo bit into a green apple, tearing off a huge chunk. It must have been tangier than expected: his lower lip curled. "We probably won't make it past Houjou. Not with our doubles."

Kanda frowned at his fellow junior and Nobuo raised his palms. "Oh no, I wasn't talking about you and Kashiwagi." He jabbed a thumb beyond the changing room, indicating the courts. Morisaki Taiji and Yokoto Daigoro were on opposite ends of the court. The rally was strained – neither could judge the ball's trajectory and as a result, every shot veered too far left, rushed too far right.

"The coach is being pretty optimistic," giggled Tomio.

"Let's hope that he knows what he's doing."

The team filed from the changing room. A cloud shifted over the sun, momentarily obscuring an old photo on one wall.

**…**

They were doing well. When he'd first accepted the reins from Horio, he'd noticed that the regulars took far too long to complete ten laps around the court. They'd shaved a reasonable amount of time from the circuit. Kashiwagi Tomio was levelling his footwork. Uesugi Chiharu was improving his serves, repeatedly spinning the ball upwards.

They were sweet in their own, brattish way. Ryoma analysed Morisaki and Yokoto. Captain and counter-puncher had twisted away from one another. Morisaki was aiding Kanda with his stretches. Yokoto was practising his volleys.

Ryoma yawned. He'd be sticking around at school for a few hours: Horio wanted to speak to him.

He needed a nap.

**…**

The English teacher rubbed his scalp with both hands. He rapidly flicked through the dictionary. He glared at the clock. He clicked his pen. Finally, there was a knock on the study door and he cried, "Come in!"

Echizen looked barely alive. "Wassup?"

Horio flung the dictionary at his former classmate and babbled, "Echizen, it's bad! I've been staring at the homework I set for half an hour. I can't find the word my pupil used in his essay. At this rate, I'll be fired from my job! I'll be the joke of Seigaku! I'll be –"

Echizen marched to the desk and scanned the sheets of white paper. With a small chuckle, he inquired, "Hey, do you want a hand with these? You're kinda stressed."

"I might be coming down a virus."

"Hmm… this guy's verbs are in the wrong place." Ryoma lifted the piece and put it on the desk's edge. He glanced at the next paper. "And this one needs to figure out her commas. This one isn't too bad, except those paragraphs are seriously weird."

"You could have been a teacher."

The coach snickered. "Me? Yeah right. What could I possibly teach kids?"

Horio twitched. Echizen Ryoma seemed to have missed the fact that he was currently teaching a bunch of kids.

**…**

"There's a nice breeze, so let's take our lunch onto the roof. It'll be a picnic!"

Tomio spread his arms, humming and running in a zigzag. Chiharu stared after his teammate with an unhinged jaw – then he spun towards Nobuo and Kanda. "Seriously?" said Chiharu weakly. "And you bug _me_?"

"That's just his natural self. You go out of your way to be adorable, Chi-chan."

Chiharu scowled at Nobuo. Yeah, right. The only reason that guy didn't pick a fight with Tomio was because of Kanda Hiromi. There was a popular rumour that he'd fought an entire team of high school football players – and stood triumphant on the heap of their unconscious bodies. Well, if anyone had the energy to do that, it was definitely Kanda. He'd racked up the highest bill at Kawamura Sushi the other day. The coach had turned white when handing over a plastic card.

They climbed the stairs leading to the rooftop and pushed the metal door; the hinges rang and scraped. Tomio was right: the scented breeze was refreshing. The four juniors stepped onto the roof, stretching.

Before they sat, Tomio said, "Eh?"

A limber figure was lying down some metres away, using a tennis bag as a pillow. It was strange. The coach always wore shorts and polo shirts. He always carried sports equipment to school, yet none of the regulars had ever seen him unzip the bag. Were there even racquets inside?

"Why the hell's he sleeping _here_?"

"Deep down, I think he's a cat. It's so sunny today. Let's not disturb him."

They slumped on the roof. From this vantage point, they could view the rest of Seigaku without trouble: first, second and third years were milling about the grounds and some students were rallying on the tennis courts. Chiharu watched them through the crisscross netting for half a minute. Then he removed the lid from his packed lunch, cooing at its contents.

Kanda produced a red apple from his pocket and passed it to Nobuo, who blinked and accepted the gift with a mild, "Cheers." Tomio shared paprika-flavoured chips. Chiharu devoured a slice of chocolate cheesecake. There was nothing he enjoyed more than crunching through the biscuit base.

Their eyes strayed to the coach throughout their conversations. Which teacher set the hardest homework? Were the seniors a detriment to the team? Had anyone caught that new drama that started airing the other night?

"It's almost the end of lunch. We'd better wake him up."

Tomio dusted his hands, sprinkling crumbs, and crawled over to the coach. He placed his fingers on Echizen's shoulder, shaking him gently. "Um, Echizen-san? Shouldn't you wake up?"

Echizen's features twisted into a scowl. He grumbled, "No way."

"I – what do you mean no way?"

"No way means no way."

"Just how old is this guy?"

Chiharu called, "Yo Coach, you have to get up. You have things to take care of."

At this, Echizen let out a little groan. "I don't want to buy groceries," he mumbled. "You buy the groceries. They're too expensive." He shifted away from Tomio and tried to settle into the tennis bag.

Kanda clapped a hand over his mouth, stifling a yelp.

"Our coach…" Haijima Nobuo was shivering. "He's not _homeless_, right?"

In a hoarse whisper Tomio asked, "What do you need to get, Coach?"

"Milk."

Chiharu rocked back and forth, muttering, "That does it. What kind of person finds _milk_ expensive? Our poor Coach doesn't have anywhere to live – and the worst thing is that we selfishly ate all that food at Kawamura Sushi. We probably spent what was left of his money."

"And that's why he rests on the roof?"

"And where would _you_ go?"

Tomio looked back at his friends, chewing his lip. "I understand why he's so tough on us. This job's his last chance. If he loses it, he'll have nothing left! No money, no food, no water!"

The coach murmured, "I haven't had a bath in weeks."

Tomio jolted. "That's amazing since… you're not… disgusting? You smell surprisingly good for a guy who doesn't bathe. There's only so much that deodorant can cover up. Otherwise, people would stay far away from you, right?"

"She rejected me."

"_Ehhh_?"

Chiharu furiously rubbed his nose. "This is worse than we thought," he crowed. "We've been worrying about ourselves – and look at this poor guy! We have to find out more about his lifestyle!"

The bell rang. Tomio immediately rolled away and the three others shrank into the shadows. Blearily, the coach straightened. He smoothed a crease in his shirt, grabbed the tennis bag and got to his feet. Slowly, he shuffled towards the exit.

"He must be tired because he spends ages searching for a place to stay," concluded Nobuo. "Come on! We'd better follow him!"

"What about class –"

"Forget it, Tomio! This is more important!"

**…**

The coach traipsed through the streets in a daze. Did he have a destination in mind? Privately, Chiharu wondered if perhaps Echizen Ryoma was returning to the temple – after all, he'd swept dust there in the past, though Chiharu hadn't caught him at the building since. He ambled without any real purpose, the portrait of a hopeless adult. At one point, a cyclist swerved around him. At another, they watched anxiously as he crossed a road where construction workers were drilling a huge hole.

They hurried past crowds, refusing to be stopped or questioned; they melded into groups and continued until cruising down a quiet path. Here, the houses were huge. Leafy plants grew over the fences. White blossoms decorated the ground, ceremonial confetti.

Echizen strolled to the entrance of an impressive property. Wooden shutters flanked large windows. The garden hosted orderly trees. Kanda gazed at it all solemnly, wondering whether the coach was here to perform a second job.

An old man, dressed in a robe, answered the door. His jaw was covered in stubble. Silver lines streaked his dark hair.

"That's a monk!" hissed Chiharu, nudging his friends.

The holy man roared.

"You again! Get lost, I know what you're here for! You robbed me blind! Toothpaste, light bulbs, the rice cooker – don't you dare show your ugly face around here!"

The door slammed and Echizen recoiled. When he swivelled away and stepped down from the porch, the juniors saw that his brow was scribbled with displeasure. They crept into the greenery, trying not to breathe; Echizen walked by, cursing in English.

When his footsteps faded, the second years traded bewildered glances.

"I thought he was a good guy," said Tomio. "Stealing from the religious… really, that's just shameful."

"Who steals a rice cooker from a _monk_?"

Chiharu sighed. He felt sad. Their esteemed coach should have set a more respectable example. Surely there was an acquaintance that he could ask for assistance, a person who would help him leave such deceitful ways?

"I don't see any point in going back to school. Let's hit the outdoor courts."

**…**

He was about to slip his key into the lock when a rich aroma hit his senses. Kintarou sniffed. Mmm, that smelt like vanilla! He sailed into the apartment, holding his arms open, trying to embrace the scent.

Freshly laundered shirts were stacked on the counter, folded as though they'd been shipped directly from a department store. Kintarou plunged his face into the pile; excellent, the cotton was amazingly soft. It wouldn't scratch at all. He drew back and noticed a small note on the topmost garment.

_Quit drinking my milk._

Kintarou chuckled and his pocket buzzed. He drew the phone and held it to his ear. "Yeah?"

"Hi there. Mind updating me on your quest?"

He pushed back his fringe. Why the heck was Miyuki always so impatient? She never even bothered to ask how he was, only ever wanting to hear gossip. "It's alright," he answered, "a bit harder than I anticipated."

"I see."

They didn't talk for much longer – when Miyuki mentioned her assignments, Kintarou flapped an arm and said his dinner was burning. She huffed and hung up. He dropped the phone, gaze flicking back to the shirts.

To the empty room, he said, "Let's go for noodles. My treat."

**…**

"Are you serious? If his situation's really that bad, we have to crush Houjou."

Morisaki's arms were crossed – his skull glinted, even though it was raining and the light was failing. "Houjou are notorious for finding dirt on their opponents. This is one match where we can't allow ourselves to be fazed. The mental game will pull us through."

"Aye aye, captain!"

"Who else will we have to worry about?"

Yokoto drawled, "Apparently, this year's Yamabuki are a force to be reckoned with. We shouldn't discount Hyoutei, since they're so rich. Never mind them for now. We need to take this match by match."

His eyes met Morisaki's. Both seniors frowned. Enoki Yuuichi whistled.

**…**

The day before the battle with Houjou, a can whacked Ryoma.

He spun, ready to retaliate – and his hazel irises met violet ones. The taller man was cleaning one ear with a little finger. "Ah, what a useless brat," he said blithely. "You're no good, no good at all."

"_Momo-sempai_?"

Was it really him? He resembled another player Ryoma had combated in the past. He couldn't remember the guy's name. He'd had a horrible technique that induced paralysis. Momoshiro's hair was much longer than when Ryoma had last seen it. And it was navy blue.

Momo held out a fist. Ryoma obligingly tapped his knuckles against it.

"We haven't heard from you in years."

"I… that kind of thing slips my mind." Ryoma smiled. "How've you been, Momo-sempai?"

"Eh? It's terrible. Of all the people in the world who could be my colleague, I ended up working with the _Viper_. You wouldn't believe how often he stays late at the office, trying to out-do my reports…" Momo shook his head. "The vice-captain's training to be a doctor and Taka-san's sushi is the best I've ever tasted!"

Ryoma said, "I took my team there. He wasn't around."

"Ah, that's too bad. Of course, you know about Tezuka-buchou."

Who didn't? Sometimes, Ryoma wondered if what fizzed in his stomach was jealousy. For so long, Tezuka Kunimitsu had been plagued by a shoulder injury. And Yukimura Seiichi had suffered from a neurological disease. So why was it only Ryoma who hadn't been able to claw his way back from the bottom of the cliff? Why was he sinking through depths while they were circling above, majestic eagles?

They had found their best rivals in one another. Once, Yukimura had probably seen Sanada Genichirou as his greatest test: the formidable Emperor had a way of terrifying even the most experienced tennis players. And Tezuka, Ryoma knew, enjoyed challenging Fuji more than anyone else.

That was an eternity ago. Things changed. Rivals changed.

"Good luck with everything, Echizen. They've entrusted their lives to you, so take care of them."

**…**

Houjou wore pristine white jerseys, longer than the norm. Ryoma stared – why did they resemble lab doctors? It would have amused Inui Sadaharu, certainly. Every single person was bespectacled, including the coach. Seigaku greeted their opponents at the net. Then, the first match began.

Houjou tried to calculate Kashiwagi's steps. He was too erratic, leaping in eight directions without warning. Kanda returned to his favoured spot. He led from the baseline, allowing Kashiwagi to play freely. The pair ripped through their adversaries with ease.

Ryoma's heart tickled, remembering the Golden Pair.

All in all, Seigaku dropped two games. Then, it was the seniors' turn.

**…**

He couldn't rely on Morisaki. Not a chance. It didn't matter that the captain had keen eyesight – he was too flaky, too unguarded against his enemies' jibes. Houjou were pushing their glasses into place, preparing to serve in the third game. Morisaki was the receiver. He was sweating.

Daigoro cursed under his breath.

Tennis was a game where teamwork wasn't necessary – he _excelled_ in singles, yet the stupid coach (the stupid thieving coach) had forced Daigoro into this role. If they didn't make it through the Best 8 tournament, they could trample on any hope of the Nationals.

The serve fired like a shot put.

Morisaki reacted with both hands.

_No_. The captain wasn't reliable. It didn't matter that he was rushing up to the net. It didn't matter that he'd just tried a drop shot – idiot Morisaki, the ball landed beyond the boundaries! He wiped his brow and the umpire called the point in Houjou's favour.

"Morisaki," called Daigoro, "forget drop shots. Just do what you're good at!"

They couldn't lose. They absolutely couldn't lose to these idiots.

The stockier half of the Houjou pair had a weightier serve. Too bad that Morisaki Taiji was the one charged with handling it. He hadn't grasped the art of twisting his body to counter the ball. It wasn't just his accuracy that was lacking but his judgement; Morisaki couldn't keep _time_…

Enoki Yuuichi watched as Houjou served. He counted under his breath.

One, two, three, four, _five_.

And that was the problem with data tennis, Daigoro thought smugly. People who loved patterns allowed themselves to be read. If they brought no spontaneity to their plays, they nullified any chance of evolving during the game.

Houjou were leading, 2-1. As Daigoro and Morisaki converged, the taller boy muttered, "When they're serving, count to five and then strike the ball. Trust me."

Morisaki lowered his chin.

**…**

Nobuo slithered out of his jersey and threw it to the coach. The dishonest guy caught it deftly in one hand before nodding at his charge – Nobuo didn't want to be relied on by that type. The truth remained: if they won this match, Seigaku would have clinched a victory in straight sets. That meant that they could all go home. There was a visual novel Nobuo was itching to continue.

Houjou's captain was called Hyoubanshi. His sandy hair was long, tied in a ponytail. He was the tallest member on the team. A breeze could knock him over and splinter him into pieces. Whatever. It didn't matter if the challenger was older, younger or the same age. Skill lay in the hand.

"Rough or smooth?"

It was Nobuo's call. Good. The all-rounder preferred serving. What was the point in wasting the initial game by reading the opponent? Better to make others dance to his drumbeat.

The arena was eerily quiet.

Nobuo served. The lines felt chalky underfoot as he dashed – Hyoubanshi had excellent range (wingspan, thought Nobuo drily; the captain was a crane). He held the racquet with his fingertips. It was a poor grip and made Nobuo angry.

Hyoubanshi broke serve.

It was the speed of his shots. The ball whooshed part Nobuo and he yelped. He glowered at Hyoubanshi; that ball had been too close for comfort.

Ten minutes later, Nobuo was bruised. He rubbed his arms and passed the senior as they changed court.

"Your esteemed coach hasn't taught you how to handle this? Maybe he's lost his touch."

Nobuo didn't care about the riddle. This was personal.

**…**

Ryoma rose – Haijima limped over, rubbing beetroot cheeks. "Heya, coach."

"You've gotten fired up," Ryoma said. "Five games all is a lousy place to stop the match. Thing is, safety first. I'll leave the decision to you. Do you want to see a doctor, or finish this guy?"

"What would you have done?"

Taking a deep breath, Ryoma admitted, "At your age, I would've made him cry."

Haijima smirked. "Then that's what I'll do."

**…**

Chiharu's palms were red; his hands were clenched so hard that his nails were leaving indents in his skin. He couldn't bear it. Haijima was getting hurt. Both he and the coach refused to cease, despite the captain's protests.

"Coach," Chiharu addressed Echizen: the man was preoccupied with the court. "Shouldn't we end this? Okay, so Haijima's one point from winning –"

"Listen, Uesugi. There's such a thing as pride."

Enoki gripped the junior's shoulders.

**…**

"Game won by Seigaku's Haijima!"

Hyoubanshi's hand was sweaty – Nobuo didn't want to shake that gritty palm. The elder said, "It shouldn't have surprised me, considering your coach."

That again? Haijima vaguely waved. Then, he passed out.

**…**

When Nobuo woke up, he saw a woman with a long, chestnut braid standing over him. She was referring to a clipboard and making notes.

"Are you… a doctor?"

"I'm training," she answered.

This was a hospital room. The walls were pale blue. Thin curtains hung at the window. That light was too bright… Nobuo faced the woman.

She wasn't that old. Her irises were brown. She was about Chiharu's height, perhaps. Her uniform was pristine, neatly pressed. She drummed her fingers on the board and smiled. "Tennis is fun," she said gently. "However, if you want to keep playing, you have to avoid damaging your body. You're young, Haijima-kun."

He sat up. It didn't hurt, not too much. Nobuo glanced down – his arms had been bandaged. "Can I go?"

"You should be okay."

"Thanks for all of your help." He trundled from the bed and smiled at the woman, who smiled back. She led him to the door and tugged on the handle. Standing opposite the entrance was the coach.

"He's alright, Ryoma-kun."

"Thanks for your help, Ryuzaki."

Echizen placed his hands on Nobuo and slowly steered the second year away. They walked down the corridor in silence, hearing beeps emanate from some rooms. After a while, Nobuo asked, "Friend of yours?"

"Ryuzaki Sakuno. We were in the same grade at Seigaku. Do you want juice?"

**…**

Ah… he wasn't a good coach. What kind of tutor allowed his team to get so _damaged_?

It must have been hard for Coach Ryuzaki. All those days when Seigaku were bleeding, bruised, battered – it hurt to be on the other side, to witness children suffering. Ryoma could only commend their bravery. Tennis was a brutal game and any team that didn't have a strong leader at the helm was destined to plummet.

He replaced the empty bottle of shower gel with a new one and checked the shampoo – alright, that would last a little while. Hopefully. Ryoma glanced around the bathroom and left the cupboard-like room. It needed a clean. Who was it who had a spa? Yokoto, wasn't it? Ryoma crashed onto the couch.

That kid had performed well, redirecting Morisaki's errant shots. They couldn't rest. Tomorrow would bring Hyoutei and though Ryoma knew that the chant would be different, though he knew that a certain troublesome guy wouldn't be parachuting into view, the nostalgia made him want to laugh.

Laugh, or cry? Ryoma pushed off the sofa and thudded onto the floor. He continued rolling until close to the coffee table. Then he leapt to his feet and decided to tidy up. He'd been in a rush prior to leaving that morning – Seigaku had to register by ten o'clock and Ryoma would not allow the team to be disqualified because their ridiculous coach was late.

A tennis ball was sitting on top of the fridge.

No, not a tennis ball. _Half_ a tennis ball. Ryoma picked it up and rotated it in his hands. It was strange that a game that contained so much used a hollow instrument.

It was old, but yellow fuzz clung to the sphere. It was scored with white grooves.

"Thank you." Ryoma ran a fingertip across the indents. "You're… a kind guy."

**…**

Chiharu cracked his knuckles menacingly. "Yeah well. S'not much we can do about Hyoutei being a giant disappointment. I guess it's good that we didn't get to S-One; Haijima totally would've collapsed."

"Don't be mean to him, Chi-chan."

Nobuo snorted and dropped a racquet into his bag. He wished the changing room was less _dingy_ – how was it that Tezuka Kunimitsu's old school had such crap facilities? "I'll be fine by this weekend," promised the junior. "You get what this means, right? No matter what happens versus Yamabuki, we've made it to the Regionals. So it's fine."

Tomio wrinkled his nose. "You shouldn't say that! Since Coach has taken us this far, we should make him proud!"

Daigoro droned, "Even if he is a thief."

The regulars guffawed in unison.

"Thief or not," Morisaki coughed lightly, "we've come this far because of his tutelage. Sure, he's not the warmest guy. Regardless, we should be grateful for his hard work."

"Houjou thought pretty highly of him," mused Nobuo, massaging the nape of his neck. "Their captain kept saying that we had an esteemed coach."

Kanda nodded. Tomio cried, "It was the same for us! What were they talking about?"

Enoki said quietly, "We're idiots."

The team swivelled towards their tallest player. He was holding a frame between trembling hands.

They gathered around Enoki; Chiharu yelped, "Let me see!" The Seigaku regulars wriggled and shoved each other until everyone was peering at the picture. They had passed it perhaps hundreds of times, but none had spared the image more than a brief glance.

Oh, they knew that Tezuka Kunimitsu featured in the shot. As a middle school student he had possessed a certain maturity. Close to him was a young boy. He wore a white baseball cap.

"Maybe he isn't gone – we can catch him!"

Seigaku charged from the room, hollering, "COACH!"

Echizen Ryoma wheeled around.

He had the same eyes. Chiharu was shaking – he'd _known_ that the coach had attended Seigaku and yet…

Echizen blinked at the regulars. His thumb was hooked around the strap of his tennis bag. "Guys. You alright?"

"Coach," said Enoki slowly, "you played on the same team as Tezuka-san?"

"Heh." Echizen glanced at the photo in Enoki's hands before continuing, "Is that what this is about? I did, back then. Thanks to his efforts, we won the Nationals. I think that allowed him to spread his wings and go to Germany; from what I understand, he was kind of reluctant before that. It was a goal that he absolutely had to reach.

"We haven't run into each other since then, so I can't get you autographs." Echizen grinned. "Is that all?"

Chiharu shivered. "No way. You're a regular in this picture. You're _tiny_."

"Smaller than Chi-chan!"

Echizen tugged at his collar. "I was a freshman when he was our captain. Neither of us stuck around for that long after the Nationals." Suddenly, Echizen was distant – his pupils dilated, as though observing a horizon that the regulars could not see. "It's easy to regret your decisions, thinking, 'What if I had stayed a little longer? What would my current life be?' But I…"

He snapped out of his daydream and focused on the team. Echizen gave a short laugh. "Hey, put that back where you found it, alright? People can be really cagey about their belongings. Good work, everyone."

As he walked away, Yokoto muttered, "We're so stupid. We've been underestimating that guy…"

Chiharu wiped his face.

**…**

Tooyama was at the counter, dicing carrots with such haste that Ryoma made a mental note to never annoy his neighbour. "Y'know, Koshimae," he called cheerfully, "the French Open is gonna start soon! That scary guy will be going for his third title."

"The captain might stop him," Ryoma answered shortly. He was at the coffee table, sorting through receipts. "When the hell did I buy cauliflower? What would I do with a cauliflower?"

"You eat it, idiot."

**…**

That was not a tune Chiharu associated with temples.

For all his visits to the place, Chiharu had never toured the entire building, merely sticking to the temple's front. He knew that sound too well to mistake it for anything else: someone was playing tennis. Who played sports in a temple?

He had his own tennis equipment. It was a good time to find out.

When Chiharu rounded the building, he found the coach serving balls into an empty court.

His form was so… _graceful_. His shots landed with such precision! Chiharu had noticed right-handed players having difficulty serving into the right service box, but the coach was unhindered by this – Chiharu, as a southpaw, had the opposite problem.

"Uesugi," the coach called. "How about a rally?"

Chiharu snatched a racquet from his bag and stood on the court. The sky was gold. He would never forget the intensity of its hue.

Echizen served. It was a light ball, one that Chiharu was supposed to answer. From the moment the freshman made a connection, worlds imploded in his chest. Then the ball flew from one end of the court to the other. It upraised the quiet. All the while, Chiharu watched the adult: everything about the coach's style was fluid. Flawless. When his lobs flew into the air, the ball transformed into a star taking to the sky.

"Uesugi," called the coach, "I was once Seigaku's pillar of support. Now, we need you."


	4. Smash

And now we're at the end! I apologise whole-heartedly for my long absence. Thank you to everyone who's stuck with this story. You're lovely.

* * *

Chapter IV

**Smash**

* * *

They were watching a spy movie when Tooyama yelped and dove behind the couch, kicking Ryoma's chin in the process.

"_WHAT THE HELL_?"

"KEEP IT AWAY!"

Ryoma's gaze tore around the room. What, was there a _lizard_ in the apartment? After a few moments he spied Tooyama's fear: a large, hairy spider was scuttling along the ceiling. Tooyama whimpered, "Keep it away."

"You're arachnophobic?"

He was walloped with a cushion. "Most spiders are fine," Tooyama snapped, "but you can TELL that one's poisonous! It's moving so quickly and it's got a million pincers. Koshimae, I don't wanna die! Get rid of it!"

"I can't do anything while it's up there. Let's just get back –"

"NO!"

He whacked Tooyama.

"Fine, you big baby."

He collected a large, plastic bowl from underneath the kitchen sink and, after some hunting, found a tennis magazine. He tore off the cover, sighing at the picture of a Spanish woman whose trainer bragged about her legendary backhand. Ryoma watched as the spider went one way, then another. It was mocking him, refusing to come down.

There was an audible gulp. Tooyama was pale. Any second now, he'd start sweating. He suggested, "Maybe I should just go back upstairs?"

"I will honestly punch you."

Finally! The spider was moving quickly. Ryoma imagined it muttering, "Invade like Fire." Another few seconds and it would disappear behind the cabinet: he crusied forward and slapped down the plastic bowl and the spider was trapped.

Slowly, he slid the magazine's cover under the bowl's rim. The spider stood on the glossy tennis racquet, secure. It was tempting to throw the arachnid at Tooyama's face. Remembering the split tennis ball, Ryoma decided not to. Instead, he jerked his head towards the door, commanding, "Open it."

"You're gonna let it _go_? What if it flies into my apartment?"

"That's… not going to happen. Besides, I'll let it go downstairs. Nowhere near your place."

Tooyama exhaled. He flattened himself against the walls, wriggled along them, flung open the door and rushed back to his fort as though being chased by mountain lions.

It was a long walk down the multiple flights of stairs. He could hear little snippets of life as he passed: one couple were arguing about whose turn it was to buy groceries and another pair, further down, sounded like they were blending a smoothie. Eventually, Ryoma leant against the building's front entrance, shouldering open the door. He cautiously set down the magazine cover and removed the plastic bowl – the spider disappeared into cool darkness.

The spider had been fairly dangerous-looking. Still, for Tooyama to have freaked out that much… Ryoma went back to the apartment. His neighbour had drawn a blanket around himself (a blanket that Nanjiroh was missing, no doubt), shivering while staring at the screen. Ryoma flopped onto the couch.

"So. You're scared of anything poisonous."

"Yeah right," mumbled Tooyama, "in that case, I'd be scared of your cooking."

Ryoma thumped Tooyama's arm. Tooyama kicked Ryoma's shin. It turned into a brawl with the two head-butting and elbowing one another. At last, Tooyama got to his feet, and in his triumph, declared that he was staying right where he was.

From the floor, Ryoma said, "Listen. A couple of us are hanging out after the Finals tomorrow. You wanna come?"

"Ahh… I'm sorry. It'll have to wait – there's something important going on at the store tomorrow. Good luck with everything, Koshimae."

**…**

The Sunday sky above them was washed a liquid blue. The sun beat down fiercely, warning the tennis players that only those with the greatest tenacity could hope to survive. During the morning, Yamabuki's ferocious doubles combinations ripped through the first two matches: Yokoto and Morisaki hobbled off the court, massaging strained limbs; Kanda and Tomio crashed on the benches, wheezing. The stadium throbbed with excited buzzing. Were the promising Seigaku going to lose in three straight sets?

Then the pressure weighed on Haijima. He stretched his arms and strode to the net, shaking his opponent's hand. Yamabuki's mood dropped as the games progressed: Haijima was producing a series of punishing shots, and before a half hour had elapsed the Seigaku supporters roared – they were back. The coach smiled at Haijima. The junior grinned.

It was Enoki's turn. Perhaps he was enthused by his teammate's display: with his immense power, the aggressive baseliner destroyed Yamabuki's genius in a mere twenty minutes.

Early afternoon, Singles One. Chiharu had to close the tournament. Hearing an official call his name, he felt his heart expand and press against tight ribs.

Yamabuki's ace rose. The boy had windswept brown hair, freckles and deep, green irises. He was small, quite natural for a freshman.

Takeda Shou had a pleasant handshake and a winning smile. "Let's do our best today, Uesugi-san."

"Sure thing," Chiharu agreed readily.

**…**

Spectators were coming back to the stands, finished with their juice and bathroom breaks. The last time he'd sat on the coach's bench had been a decade ago. Ryoma watched as people filed into the stadium. Ah, there was Momoshiro Takeshi, somehow managing to look solemn despite the relaxed haircut. And there was Dan, jacket hanging over his shoulders so that it resembled a cape. He was an uncannily physical echo of Rikkaidai's greatest captain. Dan's eyes were gleaming… Ryoma frowned. It made sense that Dan had his own protégé. He'd had a talent for connecting with skilled players.

Behind Ryoma, over at the stands, the Seigaku regulars huddled together. Horio was beside them, fixing the knot in his plain tie so that it was closer to the collar of his striped shirt. Ryoma scraped his heels on the floor. Takeda was serving.

He opened the game with a perfect Twist Serve.

The crowd cooed – the Twist Serve remained a popular technique. It could confuse players, most of whom stepped back to avoid the shooting ball. Uesugi gritted his teeth and launched himself towards the sphere: it was not his first time meeting the Twist Serve, although he hadn't perfected his response.

If there was anyone who could lead Seigaku to the Nationals and be the team's support pillar, it was Uesugi Chiharu. He was not a flawless tennis player. There was something… some tenacious quality that made him fight, roar like a dragon and claw through any impediment.

Uesugi had the resilience of those heroes he would never meet.

Stunned by the rally's pace, the crowd applauded. Takeda had an excellent dash. After spectacular returns he'd breezily enquire, "How's that?" Ueusgi did not answer with words. The first game ended. Ueusgi had not broken serve. He was unfazed; he wiped gleaming skin and prepared to surge on.

The serve was so fast that Takeda didn't react.

Didn't – or couldn't? Once the umpire made the call, Ryoma studied the first year. The boy planted his heels on the court and adjusted the black sweatbands on his wrists. He'd been surprised. He was not about to repeat his mistake.

**…**

"Deuce!"

Chiharu and Takeda were both panting. Their shirts were soaked. The match had lasted for well over an hour. Chiharu was leading, 6-5. He needed these next two points.

It was clear that Takeda Shou either had one hell of a trainer or that he had studied tennis from old clips: his body folded into graceful angles, aided by natural flexibility. He was an undoubted prodigy. A frustrating guy. Chiharu spat excess saliva from his mouth. He'd never felt more determined to take someone down. After all, Takeda wasn't the _best_.

Seigaku had been hunting through archives. They'd discovered old annuals published by Monthly Pro Tennis and found a feature that was almost ten tears old, a detailed article on the beast who critiqued their tennis: Echizen Ryoma, Samurai Junior, the first person to have ever defeated Yukimura Seiichi. What was someone so strong doing at Seigaku? The coach was bound to have his reasons for being there. It did not alter the fact that the man on the bench was _brilliant_, and Chiharu had every intention of absorbing as much as he could from the all-rounder. He wanted to play the tennis that had been exclusive to that golden age.

First, he had to surpass this annoying kid.

The next rally wore on for longer – the ball spiralled and revolved, and Takeda employed technique after technique to return it. At one point he leapt so high that Chiharu was dazzled; then the ball smacked the court and Seigaku's representative remembered that he was hadn't come there to admire the opponent. This was the place to dig a grave.

"Advantage!"

One more point. Chiharu bounced on the balls of his feet. He glanced back at the coach who said something. Chiharu wasn't an expert on lip-reading, but felt that he'd read the words:

_Don't let your guard down_.

If that was the order, Chiharu was ready to obey. It was possible that Takeda still had some fire simmering in his spirit – it wouldn't be enough to overwhelm Chiharu. He creased his shoulders. He'd close this showdown.

When the ball thudded against the racquet, Chiharu heard a thousand heartbeats meld with the spring breeze.

And it was over. Seigaku screamed. The spectators shouted. At the net, Takeda shook the older boy's hand. "Nice one, breaking that old curse," he winked. "Keep watching me, because I'll get my revenge."

Chiharu said, "You can try." He raised both arms in the air, twirling the red racquet in his left. He wanted the euphoria to last forever. He wanted Echizen Ryoma to maintain that expression – that unmistakeable pride.

**…**

"To Seigaku's National victory!"

They clinked glasses. Around them, the restaurant was bright: delicate lights trailed across the ceiling and tall lamps decorated the room's many corners. Coarse wall hangings were embroidered with colourful fish. Classical music played in the background, soft enough that the diners did not have to raise their voices above piano chords and rapid violins.

Osakada raised her palms, fanning the air. "Thanks to Ryoma-sama, Seigaku's victory is no longer a dream! You've done incredibly."

"I didn't do anything special. Horio did all of the important stuff. He found the regulars. I've just been a giant bully."

With a teasing smile, Katsuo said, "I don't remember you being so modest."

Horio agreed, "Right! Echizen's ego is so huge that it could eclipse the sun and plunge the world into a thousand years of darkness –"

Osakada elbowed him. Hard. "Pipe down, would you?"

The others laughed.

It had been a while since he'd sat together with his five friends. Ryoma surveyed the group: Horio and Osakada, bickering; Katsuo and Kachiroh, chuckling and Ryuzaki, smiling indulgently. She tucked a rogue strand of hair behind her ear and asked, "How's Haijima-kun doing?"

"He's fine. You did a good job taking care of him, so thank you."

"Ryoma-kun, I was doing my duty –"

Kachiroh cut in, "It's a great coincidence! All of us gathered here, connected through tennis – when I joined the club at Seigaku I had no idea how important the sport would become to me. Though I don't play anymore, it's wonderful to see how our old friends are doing."

"Oh yes, like Captain Tezuka. You must have run into him at some point, right?"

"Nope," said Ryoma. "Our paths never crossed. I think the captain mostly focused on making progress in Europe whereas I was primarily in the States. I haven't participated in a major tournament in years."

"Ryoma-sama… you never told us what happened."

He sighed. "An injury. I've been hiding away from it. Thing is, as I am, I can still play tennis. If anything were to happen…"

"In other words," said Katsuo slowly, "you're afraid of exacerbating the injury, right?"

It was embarrassing, but the subject had come up, and so… Ryoma found his chin dipping. He looked away from the table – not before catching the sympathetic and pitying glances. They knew too well how dear tennis was to him and to themselves. It hurt, being away from the shining stage. He kept repeating that it did not matter. Like his father, he had found a new goal, an ambition to dedicate himself to.

Ryuzaki gave a quiet laugh. The group swivelled towards the young woman. She declared,

"It's going to be alright, Ryoma-kun. Things will work out."

Horio and Osakada traded a glance – and the conversation turned to other matters: what was Seigaku's next step; the lousy coffee machine at Kachiroh's office; the outdated software at Osakada's workplace and how Horio was thinking about buying another English dictionary since someone had spilled coffee all over his.

They talked late into the night. During the walk home, Ryoma enjoyed the cool gust. It purged his lungs and whispered that anything and everything could heal.

**…**

A light drizzle was falling. Ryoma listened to the raindrops as they pattered on the roof. He sat on the porch, legs crossed, feet bare. He was wearing shorts and a loose, cotton t-shirt. He held a can of Ponta in his left hand.

Behind him, the door slid open. Ryoma's nose filled with tobacco fumes. The old man sat beside his son. They were both barefoot.

"Nice day for a walk."

"I'll say."

Nanjiroh scratched his stubble. "So what now? You've managed to shake them from the Prefectural curse. Next is Regionals. And, should you make it through that, the Nationals. It's a big dream, but if you could do it when you were a stupid thing, I'm sure they can, too."

"I _know_ they can. A few training camps, some more focused exercise – and they can do anything. I couldn't care less about Rikkaidai's strength. I refuse to be deterred from this."

The blue flowers his mother had planted swayed like sheets pegged to a line. Tooyama had replied to the laundry favour by gifting Ryoma with a detergent box – "Since you only ever buy cheap stuff. You'll get a rash."

It was strange. Tooyama had never seemed the type who was good at taking care of people, supporting others. He must have been an excellent captain.

"What's on your mind?"

Ryoma flattened his palms on the wood. In a week's time, the French Open would commence. Pundits had sworn that Roland Garros would see beautiful tennis this year. Perhaps Yukimura would be able to claim his third win. Then again, perhaps the captain would defeat his foe.

Seigaku had overcome Yamabuki. With that in his heart, surely, Tezuka Kunimitsu could strengthen his resolve and do anything.

He was unaware.

Why hadn't he ever flown back? Ryoma drummed his fingers, falling out of time with the rain. His captain was a quiet man. Not impossible to understand. Of course, Germany and Japan were two different worlds. Maybe the professional was more at home in Europe; he had lived there for several years, made friends, felt settled. And maybe –

"It's because he wanted to see how far he could go," said Ryoma quietly. "He had to find out about his true potential."

He felt a flick on the side of his head. Ryoma looked at his father. Nanjiroh drew back, skin polished with shadows.

"Boy, stop lurking in the rags he left behind. This isn't about him. It's about _you_. You need to go forward, Ryoma."

His left elbow twitched. His shoulder throbbed. His hand ached.

"I _can't_."

"You're right," Nanjiroh nodded, "not with that attitude. You need to dig deeper and find your courage. Are you telling me that you were braver at twelve than you are at twenty-two?"

Ryoma bit his lip. There was a low mewl – and a Himalayan mountain cat landed in his lap. Ryoma gathered the feline into his arms and buried his face in her fur.

Why was he trying to define what was _home_?

**…**

It was an impressive building, both outside and inside. Garbed in a well-fitting shirt and faded jeans, the young man stepped from a dark car. Leather shoes touched the sidewalk and cool eyes travelled upwards. The structure of concrete and glass had once been imposing. Urayama Shiita smiled. To Rikkaidai, he wasn't just a former student. He was a celebrity.

He noticed students pressing themselves against the windows, girls pulling each other's hair and shoving one another out of the way to glimpse the model. There would be occasion, later, to sign autographs. He made his way through the vaunted main gates, instinct leading him down a familiar path. He did not stop until at the wire netting that closed off Rikkaidai's five outdoor tennis courts. During Urayama's years there had been three courts. Thanks to the old captain, the school had gone further to boost its tennis image and cater to any who cared for the sport.

Certain traditions hadn't changed. Every last Sunday of the month, some of the middle school students battled their high school counterparts. He recalled the embarrassing losses and the hard-earned victories.

Urayama stepped onto his favourite court, the centre court, and waited. Soon enough, the coach came to meet him, arms spread in a welcoming gesture.

"I'm glad to see you, Urayama-san. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Urayama cocked back his head. "You and everyone else in the circuit has already heard, but it's worth noting that Seigaku have got their monster back."

**…**

Tomio yawned loudly. The next ranking tournament was soon and he didn't like thinking about it. There was a wonderful break between the Prefectural and the Regional tournaments. Why weren't Seigaku planning to take advantage of it? "As this rate, I'm going to get sore," he grumbled. "Youth isn't about constantly sweating."

"No, it's about constantly nagging." Enoki peered at the coach. Echizen Ryoma was directing the non-regulars, instructing them on how to hit a heavy forehand. He wove around the pupils, speaking to each individually. Enoki continued, "Are we fickle? We didn't appreciate him much when we thought he was a nobody, and then when we find out about his status, suddenly, we all adore him. What does that make us?"

"Chiharu," said Kanda, "believed in him from the start."

"You spoke!"

There was Chiharu, using a wall as a hitting partner. He didn't wear the expression of the boy who had defeated Yamabuki's freshman ace. His eyebrows had almost knitted together and his mouth was tightly fastened. If anything, an invisible force pushed on his shoulders. It was… worrying.

Nobuo said, "There's somewhere that our Chi-can sneaks off to whenever he can. We should follow him."

Snorting, Morisaki asked, "Let me guess – he's stealing from old men, too?"

"You know that was a mistake."

Yokoto broke in, "Let's do it. There's something up with that kid."

**…**

Seigaku's pillar of support.

They were heavy words. They demanded a lot. It was a burden that the coach had borne with pride – he had elevated all his seniors, despite being even younger and smaller than Chiharu. There was no way that the junior could refuse the responsibility. He had to be strong.

After practice, the coach dismissed the club and slipped away, gaze fixed on the clouds. The rainstorm had washed away the last grey clouds. The sky was spring from zenith to nadir, a peerless blue. Behind Chiharu's eyelids he saw a stretch of gold. He'd beheld the colour in only one other place other than the heavens above the temple. It was the hue of the Nationals' trophy.

He had to touch it.

Maybe the coach was going to the temple. That was where Chiharu had first noticed the strange man. Echizen Ryoma, picking up a broom with tangled bristles, sweeping floors. How did people's destinies change so much? How did a child with so much potential grow into a reclusive adult?

Chiharu's chest burned. It wasn't enough to tread where those feet had landed. He had to understand the coach's actions.

He hurried. The wind rushed through the trees. How much longer until he was at the temple? This road had a fierce bend – Chiharu kept going and going. Once or twice he thought he heard voices, low exchanges; he ignored them. They had nothing to do with him.

And then he saw that tall silhouette. Echizen Ryoma's right hand was hooked around his tennis bag. His left was in the pocket of his jeans. Chiharu had never known the coach to wear a suit.

The junior found his gait slowing. Wait. He could not suddenly charge up to the man and demand that he explain all those gaps in the picture. It was not Chiharu's right to know that which had not been shared. He had been given a job to complete. That was more than enough. It would be best if he abandoned his presumptuousness and went home.

Suddenly, a bicycle ripped into Chiharu's path. He jumped back with a yelp. The cyclist hollered, "Sorry kid!" She squeezed both brakes, slammed her feet down on the ground, scraped along the floor and tilted. Chiharu swore.

The cyclist apologised again. She raised a hand breifly before shooting off, chain slinking as she pedalled. Chiharu leant back against a white wall, breathing deeply.

"Oi Chi-chan!"

Turning, he found himself facing the other Seigaku regulars. He started. "What are you guys doing here?" he asked blandly. "In fact – wait, what's going on?"

Nobuo brushed back his fair hair. "We were planning to find out where the heck you went to – then that stupid cyclist nearly killed you, so we got worried. You okay?"

"I'm fine. As for where I was going…" Chiharu shifted his weight. "To be honest, I just wanted to talk to the coach. There's this temple that he sort of works at."

"A tennis coach who works at a temple? That's… a pretty weird mix."

"Yeah, because that's the weirdest thing about him."

"What are we waiting for? Lead the way!"

Somehow, it felt easier to have the others beside him. Captain Morisaki matched his pace to Chiharu's. Nobuo flanked the junior from the left. Tomio skipped along behind, pondering loudly if they could get some snacks on their way home. Enoki and Yokoto were at the very back, watching over the team like two bodyguards.

Afterwards, the Seigaku regulars would always wonder what had happened while they were dealing with the delay involving the bike.

Horio was at the temple, standing with mouth agape. Tomio was about to ask what was going on – Kanda pinched him. The group of eight watched the court. Two people were rallying. The first was the coach. The second was a man with fiery red hair.

"I don't believe this," Horio breathed.

**…**

It had been a decent practice, nothing too extreme after their Yamabuki battle. The regulars needed to learn that slacking did not lead to success. June would be wrapping itself around them soon and that would bring another ranking tournament. Ryoma had been carefully watching the club. A few definitely had the potential to bring a fresh element to the team. Of course, the ultimate decision lay with Morisaki. All Ryoma could do was give objective input. Coach and captain needed to work together to achieve harmony.

Ryoma had missed that important step in the middle. He had never carried the weight of the whole school, even during Tezuka Kunimitsu's rehabilitation. Thankfully, the captain had never been plagued by those same vices in his professional career.

The temple was in view. Ryoma marched towards it. As he approached, he heard someone rallying alone. Hah. The old man was more bored than usual. Good. Ryoma's veins were twining; he needed to fight.

He arrived at the court and discovered Tooyama.

"You… what are you doing here?"

The ball bounced against a brick and Tooyama caught it in his right hand. When he met Ryoma's gaze, Seigaku's coach saw that there was an almost ethereal quality to those irises. Ryoma slid the tennis bag from his shoulder, setting it on the paved ground. His mind muttered something about fetching a broom and clearing up. His soles remained firm.

Tooyama's face was strange without its habitual smile. "Koshimae," he called lightly. "You usually come here, right? It felt like the right place to settle things."

He pointed his red racquet.

Ryoma recoiled. He'd been waiting for this moment, privately wondering why Tooyama had delayed sending the battle missive. Now that he was here, he would have to admit the shameful truth aloud. It made his tongue and ears burn. "I'm sorry, Tooyama. I'm not strong enough to counter you."

"That's a lie."

Tooyama stepped forward. He looked taller than usual; his back was straight and his shoulders were squared. His hair stuck out strangely. Untamed.

"You've been scared about your left arm, though you've been playing without it for so long. You're ignoring your own strength. Koshimae, why are you keeping yourself from the thing that makes you happiest? It shouldn't just be _their_ names written on those trophies. It should be ours."

A muscle in Ryoma's jaw twitched. "If you wanted to go pro, why didn't you?"

"It wouldn't have been fun without you."

A bird cawed from its nest and there were flapping wings – Ryoma clenched one fist. Tooyama's eyes were blazing. The idiot was being earnest.

"You're too close-minded," said Ryoma coolly. "There are plenty of others besides me for you to take down. I'm not the strongest or the best. I can't beat my old man."

"You're my rival," Tooyama insisted. "That's why…"

He trailed off and kicked the ground. A pebble skittered across the court and snapped on Ryoma's toes. Tooyama went on, "Do you ever stop and think about our one point match? It almost didn't happen because we'd already lost, but you – you were the one who said that it'd be alright if it was just a point. I remember how pushy I was and how relieved I felt when you agreed to play… after all those stories about you, I decided that you were someone I absolutely had to defeat, even if it meant running a hundred miles to make it. I was crazy."

"You haven't changed."

"_You_ have! The Koshimae from back then confronted all of his challenges fearlessly. You…" Tooyama pointed his racquet at Ryoma again. "If you lose your left arm here, you'll still have your right. And if the worst thing happen, at least you could say that it died fighting a worthy opponent. You recognise, as well as I do, that we're supposed to surpass each other."

Ryoma inhaled. He hooked the tennis bag around his foot and kicked it upwards – he caught it in one hand and withdrew a red racquet. Ryoma threw the handle into his left; at once his nerves screamed. His brain jeered that it was a mistake.

He didn't care.

"Alright," Ryoma agreed, "one game. I'm going to make sure that you lose properly, Tooyama."

"That's my line!"

Ryoma crossed the baseline. He wasn't a stranger to courts, especially not this one. The weight of his left arm… Tooyama was on the other side of the net, feet sturdy, ready to receive serve. Of course. He hadn't been doing nothing for the past decade. That guy had been getting stronger and stronger.

"Here I _go_!"

And there he went, using the left-handed Twist Serve – Tooyama returned the ball easily – it hurtled towards Ryoma with such haste that he was caught between shouting and cheering; he chose neither and swung into a forehand. Tooyama cartwheeled towards the shot. Ryoma replied by skating across the court. Whenever the ball smacked the gut, another piece of his heart imploded.

"Hey, Koshimae! It's boring to watch those guys from back here. I owe that scary one and you owe your captain. Once we're done, let's finish them off!"

"No can do!"

Ryoma jumped and used all his force to send a punishing smash at Tooyama. The other almost dragged his racquet against the ground – the ball careered towards Ryoma while he was still airborne. He swore and twisted awkwardly to return it. The ball cuffed the top of the net and went over. Ryoma landed. It wasn't enough to stop Tooyama continuing the rally.

"The coach can't go running off. I want to see Seigaku at the Nationals. I want to see them lifting the trophy they deserve!"

Tooyama played a drop shot. Ryoma almost reached it.

Almost.

"Love-fifteen," announced Tooyama. "Hah. That wasn't _nearly_ forty minutes, Koshimae."

"I'm not done yet."

"Yeah you are!" The pair swivelled – Uesugi was standing close to the court. His small face was blazing. "You need to _go_, Coach! You need to go out there and inspire us all!"

Ryoma started. "I – what about _you_?"

Uesugi jabbed a thumb at his chest. "I'm the pillar," he declared. "Besides, you're forgetting something. We had an excellent coach before you came along, so put us back in his capable hands!"

Ryoma's prickling eyes travelled from Uesugi's to Horio's. The temple had teeming with onlookers. All of the regulars were there. Some were shaking.

"You're right. Your former coach… he will definitely lead you to the Nationals."

Horio gave a resolute nod and Echizen Ryoma hoped that his old friend understood the depths of his gratitude. If not today, then maybe tomorrow.

Then he brought his focus to the current problem. Tooyama was smug, having won that last point. An ache in Ryoma's elbow? He would happily increase the pain a hundred fold – it was endurable if he could smack down this idiot of a neighbour.

"You waited ten years," Ryoma called. "Before, we played for one point. This time, we're finishing a single game. When we finally play a full match – the whole _world_ will be our audience!"

"Sounds good to me, Ryoma!"

"Take this, Kintarou!"

Ryoma served again. The rally was much shorter – the ball shot from racquet to racquet. He heard the regulars' gasps. A new road stretched before them all.

Horio announced, "Fifteen-all."

They were equals and friends.

Rivals.

_**end.**_


End file.
